FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

WOODBURN MANOR

LONG ISLAND, N.Y. 11946

The same block lettering had been used for the text:

DEAR MOM AND DAD:

I’M HERE AT SCHOOL. THE PLANE RIDE WAS GOOD. EVERYONE IS BEING NICE TO ME. I LIKE IT, BUT I MISS YOU VERY MUCH.

PLEASE REMEMBER TO FIX THE WINDOWS BEFORE THE RAINS COME. THEY MAY COME EARLY, SO PLEASE BE CAREFUL. REMEMBER HOW WET YOU GOT LAST YEAR. IF YOU NEED HELP MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP. SHE SAID SHE WILL CHECK TO SEE IF YOU ARE O.K.

DAD, THANKS FOR THE BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGS. I LOOKED AT THEM WHEN I WAS ON THE PLANE. OTHER PEOPLE SAW THEM AND SAID THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL. GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT. KEEP DRAWING AND SEND ME MORE. MRS. LEIDECKER WILL HELP YOU SEND THEM TO ME.

I DO MISS YOU. IT WAS HARD TO LEAVE. BUT I DO WANT TO BE A TEACHER AND I KNOW YOU WANT THAT TOO. THIS IS A GOOD SCHOOL. WHEN I AM A TEACHER I WILL COME BACK AND TEACH IN WILLOW GLEN. I PROMISE TO WRITE. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES.

LOVE,

SHARON

(YOUR ONLY LITTLE GIRL)

I slipped the letter back into the envelope. Shirlee Ransom was looking at me, smiling. It took several seconds before I could speak.

“It’s a nice letter, Shirlee. A beautiful letter.”

“Yes.”

I handed it back to her. “Do you have more?”

She shook her head. “We had. Lots. Big rains came in, and whoosh.” She waved her arms. “Everything wash away,” she said. “Dollies. Toys. Papers.” She pointed to the wax-paper windows. “Rain comes in.”

“Why don’t you put in glass windows?”

She laughed. “Mizz Leiderk says glass, Shirlee. Glass is good. Strong. Try. Jasp say no, no. Jasp likes the air.”

“Mrs. Leidecker sounds like a good friend.”

“Yes.”

“Was… is she Sharon’s friend too?”

“Teacher.” She tapped her forehead. “Real smart.”

“Sharon wanted to be a teacher too,” I said. “She went to school in New York to become a teacher.”

Nod. “Four-set college.”

“Forsythe College?”

Nod. “Far away.”

“After she became a teacher, did she come back here to Willow Glen?”

“No. Too smart. Calfurna.”

“California?”

“Yes. Far away.”

“Did she write you from California?”

Troubled look. I regretted the question.

“Yes.”

“When’s the last time you heard from her?”

She bit her finger, twisted her mouth. “Crismus.”

“Last Christmas?”

“Yes.” Without conviction.

She’d talked about a sixteen-year-old letter as if it had arrived today. Thought California was some distant place. I wondered if she could read, asked her:

“Christmas a long time ago?”

“Yes.”

Something else atop the dresser caught my eye: a corner of blue leatherette under the apple drawings. I pulled it out. A savings passbook from a bank in Yucaipa. She didn’t seem to mind my intrusion. Feeling like a burglar anyway, I opened the book.

Several years’ worth of transactions in an unwavering pattern: $500 cash deposits on the first of each month. Occasional withdrawals. A carry-over balance of $78,000 and some change. The account was in trusteeship for Jasper Ransom and Shirlee Ransom, co-tenants. The trustee, Helen A. Leidecker.

“Money,” said Shirlee. Proud smile.

I put the book back where I’d found it.

“Shirlee, where was Sharon born?”

Look of bafflement.

“Did you give birth to her? Did she come out of your tummy?”

Giggles.

I heard footsteps and turned.

A man came in. He saw me, hitched up his pants, raised his eyebrows, and shuffled over to his wife’s side.

He wasn’t much bigger than she- barely over five feet- and about her age. Balding, with virtually no chin and very large, very soft-looking blue eyes. A fleshy nose tunneled between the eyes, shadowing a protruding upper lip. His mouth hung slightly open. He had only a few, yellowed teeth. An Andy Gump face, coated with fine white hair that resembled soap film. His shoulders so narrow that his short arms seemed to grow out of his neck. His hands dangled at his sides and ended in pudgy hands with splayed fingers. He wore a white T-shirt several sizes too large for him, gray work pants tied with a string around the waist, and high-top sneakers. The pants were pressed. His fly was open.

“Ooh, Jasp,” said Shirlee, hiding her mouth with her hand and pointing.

He looked puzzled. She giggled and pulled up his zipper, patted him playfully on the cheek. He blushed, looked down.

“Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “My name is Alex.”

He ignored me. Seemed preoccupied with his sneakers.

“Mr. Ransom… Jasper-”

Shirlee broke in. “Don’ hear. Nuthin’. Don’ talk.”

I managed to catch his eye and mouthed the word hello.

Blank stare.

I offered my hand again.

He threw rabbity glances around the room.

I turned to Shirlee. “Could you tell him I’m a friend of Sharon’s?”

She scratched her chin, contemplated, then screamed at him:

“He know Sharon! Sha-ron! Sha-ron!”

The little man’s eyes grew wide, darted away from mine.

“Please tell him I like his drawings, Shirlee.”

“Drawings!” shouted Shirlee. She did a crude pantomime of a moving pencil. “He like draw-wings! Draw-wings!”

Jasper screwed up his face.

“Draw-wings! Silly Jasp!” More pencil movements. She took him by the hand and pointed to the stack of papers on the dresser, then rotated him and pointed to me.

“Drawings!”

I smiled, said, “They’re beautiful.”

“Uhh.” The sound was low-pitched, guttural, straining. I remembered where I’d heard something like it. Resthaven.

“Draw-wings!” Shirlee was still shouting.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Thank you, Shirlee.”

But by now she was performing from her own script. “Drawings! Go! Go!” She gave his flat buttocks a shove. He trotted out of the shack.

“Jasp’ gofer drawing,” said Shirlee.

“Great. Shirlee, we were talking about where Sharon was born. I asked you if she came out of your tummy.”

“Silly!” She looked down and stretched the fabric of her dress tight over her abdomen. Stroked the soft protrusion. “No baby.”

“Then how did she get to be your little girl?”

The doughy face lit up, eyes brightening with guile.

“A present.”

“Sharon was a present?”

“Yes.”

“From who?”

She shook her head.

“Who gave her to you as a present?”

The headshake grew stronger.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“Can’t!”

“Why not, Shirlee?”

“Can’t! Secret!”

“Who told you to keep it secret?”

“Can’t! Secret. Seek-rut!”

She was frothing at the mouth, looked ready to cry.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s good to keep a secret if that’s what you promised.”

“Secret.”

“I understand, Shirlee.”

She sniffled, smiled, said, “Uh-oh, water time,” and walked out.

I followed her to the yard. Jasper had just come out of the other shack and was walking toward us clutching several sheets of paper. He saw me and waved them in the air. I walked over and he shoved them at me. More apples.

“Great, Jasper. Beautiful.”

Shirlee said, “Water time,” and glanced at the hose.

Jasper had left the door of the other shack open and I walked in.

A single unpartitioned space. Red carpeting. A bed sat in the center, canopied and covered with lace-edged quilting. The fabric was speckled with green-black mold and rotted through. I touched a piece of lace. It turned to dust between my fingers. The headboard and canopy frame were muddy with oxidation and gave off a bitter odor. Above the bed, hanging from a nail driven crookedly into the drywall, was a framed Beatles poster- a blowup of the “Rubber Soul” album. The glass was streaked and cracked and flyspecked. Against the opposite wall was a chest of drawers covered with more decayed lace, perfume bottles, and glass figurines. I tried to pick up a bottle but it stuck to the lace. A trail of ants streamed over the chest top. Several dead silverfish lay strewn among the bottles.