Read Online The Drowning Tree by Carol Goodman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Goodman
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Suspense, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Mystery Fiction, Mentally Ill, Missing Persons, Female friendship, Universities and colleges, College stories, Women art historians, Class Reunions
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doesn’t pay too high a price for that insight. In the last few months she’s seemed possessed by that Penrose window. I wondered if you noticed a change in her or if there was anything in her lecture that struck you as odd.”
“Well,” I say, picking up a lead knife and sliding it under the came at the top edge of the window, “she identified the figure in the window as Eugenie’s mentally ill sister Clare. I guess that’s bound to be controversial. We’ve always been told that Eugenie was the model and that AugustusPenrose designed the window as a tribute to craftsmanship. Christine identified the iconography with the story of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ and drew an analogy between being stuck in an insane asylum and spending four years at Penrose. She ended her lecture by saying that the Lady is calling us to ‘turn away from the shadows and face reality.’ I think it’s a brilliant interpretation but it’s bound to strike some people as too radical.”
I shift the phone to my other ear to ease the crick in my neck from cradling the receiver against my shoulder and miss the beginning of Nathan’s response.
“… anything about the Briarwood Asylum?”
The lead knife slips in my hand and nicks my thumb. When I draw back my hand a drop of blood falls on the landscape portion of the window. Fortunately, it’s not a piece that’s painted: In fact Penrose had used a technique called plating, in which he layered clear glass over the painted mountains to give an illusion of distance and depth.
“I’m sorry, what did you say about Briarwood?” I remember my promise to Bea to find out if her father was still at Briarwood, but of course I’d had to return Nathan Bell’s call first.
“Christine said she had some more research to do up there and she mentioned an aunt who worked at the hospital who could get her in to see the head doctor—could she have gone up to Poughkeepsie instead of coming back to the city?”
“Well, I put her on the southbound train.” I’ve put down the knife—I had no business using it while on the phone anyway—and look into the Lady’s face, only it’s like she’s looking past me at something in the distance. How had Christine described the blush of color on her face?
It is the reflection of the sun striking her for the first time in her life. She might be bound for death, but in this moment—the moment in which she chooses life over shadow—she is more alive than she has ever been
. There is something in her expression that reminds me of my last glimpse of Christine before her train compartment’s lights went out but I don’t know what. Christine had looked more worried than radiant.
“She did seem preoccupied with something when I put her on the train,” I tell Nathan. “Like she’d remembered something she’d neglected to do.”
“Maybe it was something she wanted to research up at Briarwood. Are you sure she didn’t get off the train?”
“Well, I stayed until the train pulled out.” Waving at the blank window. When the train was gone I walked south, away from the station, toward the factory. “I suppose she could have gotten off on the north side of the stairs,” I tell Nathan, “and gone up to the station and waited for a northbound train. Her mother still lives in Poughkeepsie. Even though she and Christine don’t get on so well she could have gone there for the night. Why don’t I call her and check?”
Nathan Bell thanks me and gives me his cell phone number. “Let me know as soon as you find out anything,” he says. “I won’t feel easy—”
His voice is drowned out by a high-pitched moan.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“Christine’s Siamese,” Nathan tells me. “I though I might as well bring her over here. She doesn’t seem very easy about Christine’s absence either.”
I AM NOT ABLE, UNFORTUNATELY, TO PUT N ATHAN B ELL’S CONCERNS TO REST . R UTH Webb tells me curtly that she hasn’t heard from
Chrissie
since
“Well,” I say, picking up a lead knife and sliding it under the came at the top edge of the window, “she identified the figure in the window as Eugenie’s mentally ill sister Clare. I guess that’s bound to be controversial. We’ve always been told that Eugenie was the model and that AugustusPenrose designed the window as a tribute to craftsmanship. Christine identified the iconography with the story of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ and drew an analogy between being stuck in an insane asylum and spending four years at Penrose. She ended her lecture by saying that the Lady is calling us to ‘turn away from the shadows and face reality.’ I think it’s a brilliant interpretation but it’s bound to strike some people as too radical.”
I shift the phone to my other ear to ease the crick in my neck from cradling the receiver against my shoulder and miss the beginning of Nathan’s response.
“… anything about the Briarwood Asylum?”
The lead knife slips in my hand and nicks my thumb. When I draw back my hand a drop of blood falls on the landscape portion of the window. Fortunately, it’s not a piece that’s painted: In fact Penrose had used a technique called plating, in which he layered clear glass over the painted mountains to give an illusion of distance and depth.
“I’m sorry, what did you say about Briarwood?” I remember my promise to Bea to find out if her father was still at Briarwood, but of course I’d had to return Nathan Bell’s call first.
“Christine said she had some more research to do up there and she mentioned an aunt who worked at the hospital who could get her in to see the head doctor—could she have gone up to Poughkeepsie instead of coming back to the city?”
“Well, I put her on the southbound train.” I’ve put down the knife—I had no business using it while on the phone anyway—and look into the Lady’s face, only it’s like she’s looking past me at something in the distance. How had Christine described the blush of color on her face?
It is the reflection of the sun striking her for the first time in her life. She might be bound for death, but in this moment—the moment in which she chooses life over shadow—she is more alive than she has ever been
. There is something in her expression that reminds me of my last glimpse of Christine before her train compartment’s lights went out but I don’t know what. Christine had looked more worried than radiant.
“She did seem preoccupied with something when I put her on the train,” I tell Nathan. “Like she’d remembered something she’d neglected to do.”
“Maybe it was something she wanted to research up at Briarwood. Are you sure she didn’t get off the train?”
“Well, I stayed until the train pulled out.” Waving at the blank window. When the train was gone I walked south, away from the station, toward the factory. “I suppose she could have gotten off on the north side of the stairs,” I tell Nathan, “and gone up to the station and waited for a northbound train. Her mother still lives in Poughkeepsie. Even though she and Christine don’t get on so well she could have gone there for the night. Why don’t I call her and check?”
Nathan Bell thanks me and gives me his cell phone number. “Let me know as soon as you find out anything,” he says. “I won’t feel easy—”
His voice is drowned out by a high-pitched moan.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“Christine’s Siamese,” Nathan tells me. “I though I might as well bring her over here. She doesn’t seem very easy about Christine’s absence either.”
I AM NOT ABLE, UNFORTUNATELY, TO PUT N ATHAN B ELL’S CONCERNS TO REST . R UTH Webb tells me curtly that she hasn’t heard from
Chrissie
since
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