A Nest of Nightmares

He was sitting on the floor beside the open chest, the newspapers spread out around him. He was tearing the newspaper into strips and dropping them into the chest.

Already understanding, Helen stepped closer to the chest and looked down into it. It was no longer empty, but nearly half-filled with newspaper. The strips Julian had so industriously shredded lay like packing over and around the central bundle, something which had been wrapped in sheets of yesterday’s paper. All the paper Julian had found in the house had not been enough to make the interior of the chest an exact replica of the image he had seen, but it was quite enough to do the same job the second time. Only there was no smell now. It was too soon for that.

As Helen reached down into the chest for the bundle, Julian let out a loud noise of displeasure and stood up. It wasn’t supposed to be taken out; it was supposed to be hidden away in the chest forever. He tried, futilely, to get the bundle away from his mother.

She held it up out of reach. It was still warm. Her hands shaking, Helen began to unwind the many layers of newspaper that Julian had wrapped around her baby.

A FRIEND IN NEED

Photographs lie, like people, like memories. What would it prove if I found Jane’s face and mine caught together in a picture snapped nearly twenty years ago? What does it mean that I can’t find such a photograph?

I keep looking. My early life is so well documented by my father’s industrious camera work that Jane’s absence seems impossible. She was, after all, my best friend; and all my other friends – including one or two I can’t, at this distance, identify – are there in black and white as they run, sit, stand, scowl, cry, laugh, grimace, and play around me. Page after page of birthday parties, dressing-up games, bicycle riding, ice-cream eating, of me and my friends Shelly, Mary, Betty, Carl, Julie, Howard, Bubba, and Pam. But not Jane, who is there in all my memories.

Was she ever really there? Did I imagine her into existence? That’s what I thought for twelve years, but I don’t believe that anymore.

I saw her in the Houston airport today and I recognised her, although not consciously. What I saw was a small woman of about my own age with dark, curly hair. Something about her drew my attention.

We were both waiting for a Braniff flight from New York, already five minutes late. A tired-looking man in uniform went behind the counter, made a throat­-clearing noise into the microphone, and announced that the flight would be an hour late.

I swore and heard another voice beside me, like an echo. I turned my head and met her eyes. We laughed together.

‘Are you meeting someone?’ she asked.

‘My mother.’

‘What a coincidence,’ she said flatly. ‘We’ve both got mothers coming to visit.’

‘No, actually my mother lives here. She went to New York on business. Your mother lives there?’

‘LongIsland,’ she said. It came out as one word; I recognised the New Yorker’s pronunciation.

‘That’s where you’re from?’

‘Never west of the Hudson until two years ago.’ Her sharp eyes caught my change of expression. ‘You’re surprised?’

‘No.’ I smiled and shrugged because the feeling of familiarity was becoming stronger. ‘I thought I knew you, that’s all. Like from a long time ago, grade school?’

‘I’m Jane Renzo,’ she said, thrusting out her hand. ‘Graduate of Gertrude Folwell Elementary School and Elmont High, class of ’73.’

Jane, Jane Renzo, I thought. Had I known someone by that name? There were distant resonances, but I could not catch them. ‘Cecily Cloud,’ I said, taking her hand.

‘What a great name!’

Our hands unclasped and fell apart. She was grinning; there was a hint of a joke in her eyes, but also something serious.

‘But it doesn’t ring any bells?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it does, it definitely does. Sets the bells a-ringing. It’s the name I always wanted. A name like a poem. I hated always being plain Jane.’ She made a face.

‘Better than Silly Cecily,’ I said. ‘The kids used to call me Silly until I got so used to it that it sounded like my real name. But I always hated it. I used to wish my parents had given me a strong, sensible name that couldn’t be mispronounced or misspelled or made fun of – like Jane.’

Jane. Memory stirred, but it was like something deep in a forest. I couldn’t get a clear sight of it.

‘We all have our own miseries, I guess,’ she said. She looked at her watch and then at me, a straightforward, friendly look. ‘We’ve got time to kill before this flight gets here. You want to go and sit down somewhere and have some coffee?’

The rush of pleasure I felt at her suggestion was absurdly intense, inappropriate, as if she were a long-lost friend, returned to me when I had nearly given up hope of seeing her again. Trying to understand it, I said, ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before?’

She laughed – a sharp, defensive sound.

Hastily, afraid of losing our easy rapport, I said, ‘It’s only that I feel I know you. Or you remind me of someone. You never came to Houston when you were a kid?’