“Oh, he did. Well, what we can be sure of was that the kids were kept up there for years,” he added. “That’s true. Whether someone deliberately was poisoning them or they just happened to ingest some rat poison is unknown. The only thing I can tell you is that this servant came to believe that their grandmother had told their grandfather that they were there, and he had insisted on their being kept locked away. This servant did not like their mother at all and believed she went along with everything knowing those kids would not be freed so easily. But that’s just this man’s opinion about it. I guess the point is, what difference does it make now, Kristin? Actually, don’t you have better things to read?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I need to read this to the end.”
He nodded. “Okay. But don’t ask him any more questions about it. He feels like he . . .”
“Would be betraying my mother, who never wanted to talk about it?”
“Exactly.”
I looked away. “Somehow I believe she would want me to read it, but it would probably have been our secret.”
He stood up, smiling. “Maybe. Everyone has a few. Look, if you get confused or too deep into it and need to talk to someone, call me. Will you?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Who knows? Maybe there is a movie in it.” He held up his hands instantly. “Just kidding. Although kidnapping people and holding them hostage for some reason is always a Hollywood possibility.”
“I’m sure Christopher didn’t write his diary for that purpose,” I said. “Do you know if he’s still alive or where he would be today?”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Could you find out for me? Ask a detective to locate him?”
“I live in the make-believe world, Kristin. The only detectives I know are Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade. Get a crush on some boy, and forget about all that,” he advised. “That’s what I do whenever I confront something unpleasant. I fall in love . . . for five minutes,” he added, and laughed. Then he hugged me. “Let’s have a great dinner and work on getting your father to let you come see me in Hollywood.”
“That,” I said, “frightens him the most.”
He laughed and kissed me again and went out.
I stood there in silence for a moment, and then I whispered, “Don’t worry, Christopher, I won’t leave you.” Almost the way someone would swear on a Bible, I had to touch the diary after saying that, and then I went to shower and dress for dinner.
Nothing was mentioned about Foxworth or the diary after that. Uncle Tommy worked on getting my father to let me go to Hollywood during one of my school vacations. I could see how hard it was for Dad to be apart from me for even a short time. He had been just like this when I had gone to visit Aunt Barbara. I dreaded how terribly traumatic it would be for both of us when it came time for me to leave for college.
Reluctantly, though, he promised to think about it. He even vaguely suggested that he might go, too. The rest of the evening was given over to their memories and talking about Aunt Barbara. Plans were vaguely made for a real get-together in the near future, maybe to celebrate Aunt Barbara’s next birthday. Dad said he would relent and go to New York for that, and Uncle Tommy often traveled to New York on business.
I had driven us to the restaurant and drove us home. Both of them had had a bit to drink, and I thought they were funny, especially my father, who was fighting not to appear even slightly drunk. He didn’t have to tell me—I knew he was like this only because he was with his brother and they had not seen each other for so long. The love they had for each other was palpable. At times, it brought tears to my eyes. I could only imagine my mother sitting there beside me, smiling.
Breakfast was quick the following morning. I had to get to school, and Uncle Tommy was off to make a flight. All three of us refused to say good-bye. It was reduced to a simple “See you soon.”
Kisses and hugs, Uncle Tommy’s whispers of how proud of me he was, and his offer always to be there for me followed me out to my car and traveled with me all the way to school. I tried to keep my tears buried under my eyelids, but some escaped. I sat in my car in the parking lot to catch my breath and get my eyes to look less bloodshot. Kane saw me and lifted his hands to ask why I was just sitting there. I got out and went to him quickly.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. Just hold my hand for as long as you can.”
“Ask me something hard to do,” he said, and we walked into the school.
I did my best to concentrate on my work and participate in conversations with Kane and my girlfriends, but anyone probably could see that I was preoccupied.
I knew that the mood in our home would be darker when I returned from school, but my father did everything he could to push it away. He made his special meat loaf for us and talked incessantly about the job. It was smart. Get busy, I thought. Get so busy you don’t realize why you were even sad for a while. And then push back into hope and dreams as soon as you can.
I did.
And I didn’t even read any more of Christopher’s diary until the following night, when my father had gone to bed and I had done all my homework, spoken to Kane, and gotten under my blanket. Then I reached back for the diary and whispered, “I’m still here, Christopher. Still listening.”
Fall came rushing down around us, a cold season unlike any I could remember, perhaps because we were trapped in such a cold place. Without a stove or even an electric heater in the attic, we could sometimes see our own breath. Momma was afr
aid of bringing an electric heater, afraid of fires, and there was no way to have a stove without a chimney. Her solution was to bring us heavy underwear.