Chapter Four

She awakened to the music of the pipes. Surely this was a dream. But no, she was alone in the bed. She opened her eyes and looked around her. She was in her own room, in her own bed. Was that even possible? She sat up and surveyed her surroundings, the gifts she had been given. Catherine had often wondered before if she had caused her own downfall. What terrible things had she done, to be repaid with the life she had awoken to. But now she wondered the opposite thing. She must have done some good, something wonderful, in her lifetime, to deserve such a reward as this. She was home. She knew it. She was aware that for now she was only a guest, but that’s not the way it felt at all. She was finally where she truly belonged.

Catherine noticed Elizabeth passing by her chamber with a bucket in one hand, her cane in the other. She slipped out of bed and threw the crocheted shawl over her shoulders. She followed Elizabeth down the passage, shivering a little, she knew it would take some time before she got used to how cool the air was here. Elizabeth turned around to her and smiled, recognizing her footfall.

"Up early I see. Well good child, I’ll show you where the well is."

Catherine took the bucket into her own hands. Elizabeth nodded and they followed the tunnel to the well, Catherine drawing the water and carrying it back to Elizabeth’s chamber where a fire had been lit, and preparations for the morning meal were already under way.

"You can eat with me if you would like. Father seems to have doubled my rations. Or if you prefer, you may go to breakfast in the main hall. I’m afraid my fare is rather primitive."

Catherine sat down. Elizabeth smiled. "Well, we’ll see what we can’t scrape together."

Catherine appraised some of the art work Elizabeth had lent against a far wall. They were pictures of the City painted on cardboard, with cardboard frames: Lincoln Center, Time Square, the Statue of Liberty.

"Are you looking at my Cityscapes? It’s a fearsome bore I’m afraid, painting those, but they sell. There is a helper, a sidewalk vendor who sells them for me, we split the profits fifty - fifty. Keeps me in paints and other sundries."

Catherine wished she could speak, ask questions. But she had to be satisfied with whatever information Elizabeth offered.

She settled in nicely - quietly. True to their word the tunnel dwellers respected her privacy - waiting for her to come to them. She and Elizabeth were isolated from the rest of the community, Catherine could see that on the map Mouse had drawn up. But the hot springs used as bathing pools for the women were close by. At times she could hear their voices carry through the tunnels - she could hear it when someone laughed, or when a mother called to a child. The springs were used by the women mostly in the morning, sometimes in the late evenings. Catherine was used to keeping odd hours. She worked till three A.M. every night at the restaurant. So she bathed during the early morning hours, and that was when she did the laundry also. She would bring both hers and Elizabeth’s things to the mouth of a running stream that ran out she did not know where. There were ropes running near the banks on either side and it was here where the women, and sometimes men, hung out their laundry.

Sometimes she thought she would like to be among them when she heard their chatter echoing down the corridors. But she felt shy. The effects of the homelessness she had endured and the isolation she felt in the mental ward clung to her. She still kept her eyes to the ground when she walked. She wore the crocheted shawl over her head when she wandered the tunnels; partly for warmth, and partly because she did not yet feel comfortable in shedding her protective covering.

But she was learning what it was like to have someone to care for. Despite Elizabeth’s denials Catherine could see that she needed her. She understood now the motivation for Diana’s protectiveness toward herself. She was beginning to feel the same way about Elizabeth. Some unknown person dropped off groceries in a cardboard box every few days. Elizabeth could still cook and care for herself, she did quite nicely within the confines of her chamber. But she did need help at times, especially with her paints.

Elizabeth had not allowed her failing eyesight to interfere with her art, she painted by sheer instinct now. But her fingers were often stiff in the mornings. And it was Catherine now who prepared the day’s mixtures, it was she who squeezed out the tubes, slapping the colors unto the pallet in the correct pattern, so that Elizabeth would know which ones she was choosing. Catherine walked with her to the empty walls that Elizabeth decorated. She stayed and made sure she was settled in for the day’s work. Then Catherine returned to her own little room and did not leave it again until late in the afternoon when Elizabeth was glad to have her help in cleaning up.

What did Catherine do in the interim? She listened to the language on the pipes and tried to decipher its meaning. She thought she must have a quick ear, because she soon began to understand the rapid fire transmissions. She practiced writing with the calligraphy set Vincent had given her. She leafed through the book on signing, trying to guess at the meanings of the gesturing. The book was very worn, the leaves were falling out in places, and she wondered about the people who had made use of it before her. And the words, the words were starting to take coherent form. They still meandered about a little, she couldn’t hold the longer ones still yet, but smaller words - she could decipher those.

Sometimes she just lay on her bed looking around at her chamber, marveling at how content she was just to be there. Sometimes she thought she might like to walk in the park. She could see the outlet marked on Mouse’s map. But not yet. She was hesitant of leaving the safety of the tunnels - like a cat that had suffered some outdoor trauma and as a result would stay for weeks holed up in the house - refusing to leave a favored spot.

It was the sound of music that lured her away from the painted tunnels for the first time. She could hear it at a distance, someone playing a piano, very beautifully. She followed the notes, the Moonlight Sonata.

Catherine was drawn to a large chamber that was empty except for a few chairs and a large concert piano. There was a man playing. His dark fingers expertly caressed the keys, a true master. A young woman with a small child on her lap, probably no more than two years of age, was sitting nearby and watching.

Catherine sat down at the curve in the tunnel, unseen by the pianist and his audience. She leant her head against the wall of the tunnel and closed her eyes, the music taking her places she might have been. She wasn’t sure. But they were lovely places.

The man finished his concert. The little girl came forward and he placed her on the seat, showing her the fingering for ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. He was patient, she was giggling. He placed his head against hers.

"Now Cathy, you want to learn to play, don’t you?"

"I do Rolley." she lisped.

"Then come on, it ain’t so hard."

"Not for you." She smiled up at him and laughed. The woman came behind him and put her arms about his neck.

"She has a point." The woman was laughing too. She was beautiful, with long flaxen hair and a soft voice.

The man stood, put his arm around the woman’s waist; they left the little girl to pound away at the keys, they moved to the sit in the chairs that the woman and the child had just vacated, located near the tunnel entrance where Catherine was listening. He sat down and she playfully threw herself into his lap, kissing his forehead, his ear, his cheek. He was laughing too, looking over at the miniature pianist, then back at the woman.

"Girl, you’re bad. Can’t you wait ‘til tonight."

"I can’t." She rubbed his nose with her own. "You’re irresistible."

"Don’t know about that." But he had his arms around her, grinning at her.

"I do." She got up and pulled another chair closer to him and sat down on it. "Maybe we can ask Eleanor to babysit tonight."

"Eleanor probably has plans. Went to ask Pascal somethin’ this morning. He wasn’t alone."

"I know. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say they would make the perfect couple?" She gazed at him "We can ask Mary then."

"Lena, I don know what to do with you."

"Sure you do." She gave him a wicked grin, he seemed almost embarrassed. "I can’t help it." She sat up, defiant, "Every time I look at you..." she took his hand and kissed it.

"I feel the same way about you. Wonder what I could have been thinking of, wandering around all that time without you. When I think... I didn’t want to come back, and here you were waiting for me. If Vincent hadn’t found me...hate to imagine it."

"I feel so sad thinking of Vincent. You and me, Pascal and Eleanor... do you think it hurts him to watch other people fall in love? I don’t think I could bear it if I were him."

"Don’ know. But I think it makes Vincent happy to see us. Makes him remember. He don’t begrudge us Lena. He loves us."

Lena nodded. "I’m sure you’re right. And he does seem more cheerful lately, doesn’t he?"

"Yeah, yeah I think so."

"Do you think it’s because of Diana? I mean, she stopped coming for a while. And now that she has come back..."

"No. Likes Diana fine, I’m sure. But he don’ love her - only Catherine. He’ll never love no one but Catherine."

"I guess, I found that out, didn’t I? You weren’t here when I first came down. I was in love with him. I really was. But he couldn’t see anyone but her."

"You tryin’ to make me jealous girl, cause it’s workin’."

Lena threw her arms around his neck. "Don’t be. I did love Vincent. I do love Vincent. He was the first man who ever showed me any tenderness, any compassion. But he didn’t love me back, not the way I wanted him to. And I knew he belonged to someone else. I was so confused. I didn’t understand then, what a real relationship was, what loving someone and having them love me back was. I had no idea. I couldn’t even imagine what it could be like. Not until you. And you see. I fell in love again. People do, Rolley. Maybe Diana isn’t right for him but that doesn’t mean no one is. Maybe this new woman - Rose..."

"There you go with your match making again."

Lena stood up and started walking around Rolley’s chair. "Well, it worked with Pascal and

Eleanor didn’t it?"

"Guess it did. But if don work out in the long run, I don wanna hear nothin about it. You know I tol you you shouldn’t always be in other people’s business."

She sat down again. "But I’m good at it. And I wish Vincent was happy again. I can’t bear to think of him so alone."

"Vincent ain’t alone. He’s got lots that love em, and he has his son, Lena."

"I guess. But he should have a woman to love him. He deserves it."

"Know what I think? I think people is like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle with millions a pieces. And those pieces, well, some of them, a lot of them maybe, almost fit. But there is only jus one that fits jus perfect. That’s how Catherine and Vincent were. And now, now I don think he could settle for one that didn’t match up quite right, not after the way it was with her."

"Maybe. Still...you never know. I wish Father and Vincent would let me talk to Rose. If anyone here knows how she feels - it’s me."

"That might be true Lena. But it hasn’t been two weeks. She’ll come round once she’s adjusted." Lena stood up again, started pacing in front of Rolley.

"I don’t know about that. I felt like such an outsider at first. All these good people, and me? I didn’t believe any of them would ever really accept me as one of their own."

"Cause you were still blaming yourself Lena. Sometimes I think you do even now."

Lena glanced over at Cathy, who was blissfully playing songs of her own composition on the piano. She lowered her voice. "You don’t know the shame of living the way I did. And still, every time I think of it, I wonder how you can even want to touch me."

Rolley jumped up, grabbed Lena’s arm. "Don you never let me hear you say that! Never! What happened to you as a child Lena, that ain’t your fault. No more than it being me and Anthony’s fault we was foster children - no home of our own. No one gave you any hope when you was little. And me, not until here. And you look around you, you see the way children are raised here. That’s the right way. Not like us. Don you never blame yourself for what happened to you." He pulled her even closer to him. "You didn’t have no choices Lena, no one ever gave you some." Rolley consoled her, kissing her face.

Lena looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Know what I think Rolley, I think you’re right about those puzzle pieces. And I think you are my absolutely perfect fit...perfect, you’re perfect."

"You gonna make me blush girl." He smiled down at her, and they kissed.

Catherine had been so intrigued by the couple she hadn’t realized she’d been eavesdropping. She knew she didn’t belong there listening to them. Still, she couldn’t help smiling. She slowly rose and returned to the quiet of the painted tunnels.

 

Catherine couldn’t help but feel cheerful as she came and stood beside Elizabeth.

"Is it so late already child? I get lost in my work sometimes."

Catherine was still smiling to herself, still thinking of Lena and Rolley. What must it be like to be so in love?

And Vincent, what did he feel? Their bond had not been repaired. But he was not unaffected by her presence. He found he was less and less inclined to leave the tunnels at night; because of the feeling of well being there. He wandered below, particularly the painted tunnels. They drew him almost nightly. He would stand before one painting in particular; it was Catherine and Vincent, painted in profile, they stood facing each other, their fingers intertwined. Vincent would lean against the opposite tunnel wall, glad for the cold stone against his back. Because at these times he could feel the heat of his skin underneath his fur, the quickening of his heart beat. His clothes would feel heavy and cumbersome, his fingertips restless. And it was as if his blood has left his veins, and was flooding through him, unrestrained, as thick and as hot as lava. He would leave the upper tunnels then. He would make his way below, to the pool under the falls. Shedding his clothing - he would dive just below the falls, to where he knew the water was coldest. He would dive as deep as he could, holding his breath, pulling the water back with his strong arms, feeling the water pressure against his bare body.

And when his lungs could no longer hold the air, when they were bursting, he would rise to the surface, gulping in the oxygen he needed, swimming to the bank. He would lift himself out of the water, shivering slightly, shaking himself. Lying down on the cool rock surface, the water cascading off his fur, he always felt a sense of composure then, of peace; his edginess doused by the cold water; his complacency returned. He could not understand it. But he was thankful. Thankful he could enjoy his son more, that the people he loved had less concern in their eyes when they looked at him, thankful he was no longer tortured by the guilt he had felt for allowing Catherine to die.

It was music once again that induced Catherine to venture further than she had ever been before. She was walking the painted tunnels, one picture especially intrigued her. It was the profile of a man and a woman. He was wearing a long, dark cloak, his flowing hair obscuring his features. She was gazing up at him, the woman, and she looked, why, she almost resembled herself.

She heard, at a distance, the strains of string instruments; it didn’t sound as professional as the piano playing had, but it was lovely none the less. It must be the practice session referred to on the pipes. Catherine thoroughly understood their language now. She knew that the children were reminded daily of their itinerary by Pascal, who kept a reverberating calendar. She returned to her own chamber and retrieved Mouse’s map. She thought she could find her way, and the music would lead her. She tucked the map and a small piece of tallow and matches into her pocket, pulled her shawl over her head and set out.

She followed the music. She sat in the tunnel above Father’s chamber and looked down on the children playing their hearts out. She almost applauded when they finished. It was early evening and the children were anticipating their dinner. The older children discussed whether or not Vincent would finish the book that night. She knew what they were talking about. She could hear the summons every night on the pipes. She spread out the map and lighted the small candle which she drew out of her pocket. There was a tunnel above Vincent’s chamber similar to the one above Father’s. It wasn’t far. Catherine would like to listen too.

 

She located the corridor that opened unto Vincent’s chamber. She paused for a moment, looking down into its interior. She surveyed the bed, the cradle, the ornately carved wardrobe, the Tiffany lamps, the odd assortment of ornaments that Vincent had collected since childhood. She smiled to herself. The room seemed to contain more than just furniture.

She seated herself a little way from the mouth of the tunnel. Vincent looked up when he entered, he knew she was there, at least, he knew that someone was there. He tucked a sleeping Jacob into his cradle.

"My dust would hear her and beat, had I laid for a century dead..."

He stared up again, at the tunnel overhead. Then he shook it off, sighing, he picked up the book he intended to finish that night and leafed though it. The first of the children began to arrive; they were adolescents really, or on the cusp of it. He sat where he always sat to read to the children, his chair pulled back into his chamber against the far wall. If Catherine looked into the apartment now she would not be able to see him from her vantage point.

The rest of the children assembled. Catherine caught the tone of a low voice now and again. It arrested her attention. She found herself listening for it, trying to distinguish the soft accents from the banter of the children.

But then she could hear it clearly - distinctly. He began to read, and she was caught. Low and soft and warm. She closed her eyes and listened. Sonorous, gravelly. It engulfed her, she could hear his voice not just with her ears, but through her skin, the words carried along her blood stream, wedged into the marrow of her bones. She could feel them that deeply. She was positive she could never before have heard any sound so beautiful.

"1802 - This September, I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend..." Vincent had begun it. She listened uncomprehending at first but when he read, "A sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange." She knew the place! Knew it as well as if she had lived there herself.

As he went on reading she grew continually more excited by the character’s names - old friends come to life. Nelly Dean, Mr. Lockwood, Hareton Earnshaw. Old friends all. Dear old friends.

What Catherine did not remember was that this was her mother’s favorite novel; that her very name was a product of her mother’s love for this narrative. When Mrs. Chandler was dying she read this book to her daughter, the final thing she gave her. And in adolescence Catherine would read it again and again, committing much of it to memory; a cherished memory of her mother. Yet even had she known this, she still would not have been prepared for what happened next. Catherine listened in joy and wonder to the familiar words read in that strange and lovely voice. She became immersed in the narrative. But then he read:

"I was summoned to Wuthering Heights, within a fortnight of your leaving us, she said: and I obeyed joyfully, for Catherine’s sake."

Catherine! Right through and through her - suspending her breathing - making her limbs tremble and her eyes fill with tears - affecting her in a way she could not understand. Was it sympathy for him, the reader? Catherine had been his wife’s name, hadn’t it? Rose knew about loss. Did she feel connected to his bereavement through his deep, dulcet voice? When she thought about it later she was sure that must be the explanation. But right then she sat above him, and she strove for air, and she shook, and she felt touched, literally physically touched, by the pronouncement of that name on his lips.

Vincent lost his place for a moment. His eyes were drawn to the entrance above him. Vincent’s unusual make-up gave him percipience that other men did not possess. He had always been a good judge of what others were feeling. That’s what he told himself. That’s how he explained it to himself after everyone had gone, and he tried to formulate how the agitation of the unknown woman who had come to listen to him read had seeped into him.

Catherine was sorry to hear the closing words. She could’ve listened to him the whole night long. She felt as if awakening from a trance. Slowly she became aware of her surroundings. But his words still radiated like shattered stars within her.

The children began to ask questions, to discuss the story they had just heard.

Samantha asked first, "Why, if Heathcliff loved Catherine so much, could he treat her daughter like that?"

Vincent smiled. "I remember asking Father that exact question when he first read this book to us. I did not understand it then, and in truth I understand it less now, being a parent myself. I cannot fathom how he could profess to love the mother, and yet be so cruel to the daughter. It did not, does not, fit with my definition of love. However, I will give you the answer Father gave to us. Young Catherine reminded Heathcliff of the betrayal he felt by the mother. She was the child of a union between the woman he loved and his hated rival. She was a reminder of all that he had lost, of all that he had never been able to have. That is as near as I can come to an explanation."

"But Heathcliff did love Catherine, didn’t he? I mean, he tried to dig up her grave and all." Kipper puzzled.

"Yes." Agreed Samantha, "and what about the way he thought about her every minute?"

Catherine was fascinated by Vincent’s discourse, by his honesty with the children. He took their questions seriously. It was a true discussion, with everyone’s opinion being equal. The pattern of his speech was slow and measured, adding weight to his considered opinions. Finally they asked for his assessment on Heathcliff and Catherine’s feelings.

"What Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw felt for each other, I would not call love. In my opinion they were both too selfish to really understand what love is. What they felt for each other was passion, obsession perhaps, but not love. Had Catherine Earnshaw really loved Heathcliff would she have married another man for mere money and position? And Heathcliff, had he truly loved Catherine, he would have desired her happiness even after her desertion. No, I do not believe in a love that can destroy the very object of it."

"But they really didn’t destroy each other, because they both came back as ghosts. Do you believe in ghosts Vincent?" Geoffrey asked.

"I’m not sure I want to answer that." He paused, "I’ll just say that I do not dismiss the possibility."

This opened up a whole new area of discussion and Vincent let them wonder for a few minutes before he announced that the evening had come to a close. This news was greeted with groans and sighs of protest from the children. Catherine felt as if she could join them. She did not want the evening to end any more than they did. But she rose up, covered her head with her shawl. "But we haven’t picked another book yet." Geoffrey protested.

"That’s true." Vincent conceded. "I was thinking perhaps - ‘Moby Dick’."

"Yeah, but some of that is really boring!’ Zak complained. "Couldn’t we just read the good parts?"

"How about ‘Great Expectations’?" Eric chimed in. Catherine thought someone must have prodded him because he yelled "Ow! What did I do?" after that.

"It’s all right Samantha," she heard Vincent say. "I think we are overdue for a visit with Pip and Estella." He looked around the room. No one said anything. "Great Expectations" it is then."

Catherine reluctantly returned to her own room.

 

Catherine never missed a night after that. As the days passed by she began to look forward earlier and earlier each day to the evening ahead. She couldn’t help it. She tried to stop thinking of him. She borrowed some of Elizabeth’s books and tried to concentrate on teaching herself to read again. She practiced her writing. But she couldn’t help thinking of his offer to teach her to sign. She could do that. She could write him a note and ask him to tutor her. Surely he wouldn’t think anything of it. He didn’t have to know about the way his voice made her heart beat; or the way she dreamt about him at night.

She didn’t even know what he looked like. She tried to imagine him. But the thing was, she felt as if someone with such an extraordinary voice couldn’t just look like any other man. There had to be something different about him, something unusual in his face or form.

He would leave the tunnels at night. She knew that. The sentries all signaled to one another when a tunnel dweller left, and then again when they returned. She listened each night for them to announce his departure. She found herself staying awake and waiting, restlessly, for his return. It seemed his journeys above were of a shorter and shorter duration. She was glad. She was finding his presence below reassuring. No, more than that, she was finding it necessary.

And when he was safely below again, then she slept, and then she dreamt. The nightmare visions she used to have were non-existent now. Her dreams became permeated with the sounds below: the constant murmuring of the pipes, the rushing of water cascading through underground passages, sometimes even the distant cadence from the tunnel of the winds reached her small chamber. His voice.

His voice held sway above all else. Its depth, its timbre. It could soothe the nerves yet at the same time stimulate the senses. Sentences eloquent as strong arms, words warm and enclosing as hands; fingers melodious as syllables, touch as sound - sound as touch -the senses interchangeable. Voice as sensation. The sound penetrated deep inside her mind - his voice.

She would awaken in the full heat of the dream - his unspoken name on her lips - her breath risen from her body, floating in the air somewhere above her. She could feel the pounding of her heart beat, even through the rough skin of her hands she could feel the chambers of her heart bounding against her inner self when she placed a hand upon her breast. A captive, her own heart held captive by feelings that she did not ask for and could not control.

So how could she ask him to teach her to sign? How would she be able to hide this from him? She longed to share his company - to curl up like a contented cat in his chamber, to listen to him read, to watch him play with his little boy. But she suspected she’d give herself away. And it’s not like that could ever do her any good. It’s not as if he could ever respond to her in the way she had responded to him.

Look at the women he had turned away: Lena, with her pretty face, lovely voice, and affectionate ways. Diana, a beautiful woman, strong and compassionate. Yet it was only Catherine that held his heart still. And what did she, Rose, have to offer? A woman with a broken mind, a woman with violent tendencies, a woman with no past and a very uncertain future. And her hands, it seemed silly, compared with her other faults - to even factor these in, but Catherine couldn’t help grimacing as looked down at her hands, healing now, but in a very unattractive way. The skin on her palms was discolored, withered, pulling at the tips of her fingers, bending her hands slightly in on themselves, giving them a gnarled, an almost claw like appearance. She couldn’t help it. Tears, unbidden, would roll down her cheeks when she looked at them, falling unto the repulsive limbs. What man would ever want to be touched by these hands?

She usually arrived at the corridor above Vincent’s chamber after he himself had returned but a little before the children came. He knew she was there. But he was off his emotional kilter, no, more than that, his whole being had been thrown off its orbit. Vincent was not sure what he was feeling or from where. He sensed something of Catherine’s emotions, but not like before. Yet on one night in particular he nearly followed her.

They were well into the book. It happened when Vincent read the passage where Pip declares his love for Estella. Pip is forlorn, knowing she is to marry another, yet he pours out his heart anyway, no pride stands in the way of his love for her. Vincent read this paragraph with a poignancy that made Catherine feel as if her heart could break in two just listening to him. She did not try to control her tears.

Vincent was quiet after the night’s reading. He dismissed the children early. He felt her leave. He paced his chamber. He walked to the foot of the ladder and nearly climbed up, went after her. He wanted to talk to her, ask her questions, comfort her. He felt her tears, her sadness.

He sighed, returned to his seat, pulled his journal towards him. But he found he could not write. He rose again, striding irritably about the room. He could imagine this woman’s reaction, if he came up behind her and accosted her, alone in a dark passage - with him! Finally, he lifted up a sleeping Jacob and carried him to Father’s chamber.

Father was propped up in his own bed, reading.

"Would you mind watching Jacob, Father?"

Vincent deposited Jacob in a cradle next to Father’s bed, it was similar to the one in his own room.

"You’re going above?"

"Yes. I won’t be long. I just need some air."

"You seem restless tonight, is anything wrong?"

Vincent shook his head. "No, not really." He took a seat adjacent to Father’s bed. "I was just thinking about Rose. Father, do you think perhaps we are wrong in letting her isolate herself so? I’m worried she might retreat deeper and deeper inside herself."

"Hasn’t Diana been by to see her?"

"Not in the last week. She has been very busy."

"But you keep in contact with her?"

"Yes."

"I’m glad. I thought it a great pity when Diana stopped visiting us."

"As did I. Diana and I care a great deal for each other, we have since the beginning. I was afraid what happened between us might sever our relationship completely."

"I’m not surprised it hasn’t. Diana only needed some time to get over the pain and embarrassment of your rejection. I knew she would. Look at your relationship with Lena, she is still terribly fond of you."

"Lena is terribly fond of us all. She is very grateful to be here."

"Well, I think the same can be said of Rose. I wouldn’t worry Vincent. I’ve spoken to Elizabeth. She feels that Rose is adjusting wonderfully. And the woman has been very helpful, Elizabeth tells me she is growing quite attached to her. Rose has been attempting to read. I understand from Elizabeth that she pores over the books she has given her for hours. It hasn’t been quite a month Vincent. Give her a little more time. I’m sure she’ll reach out if she feels the need to."

"Perhaps...I hope so."

" Why the sudden concern? Has something happened?"

"Not really. It’s just that...did you know Father, that she comes to listen to me read at night."

"No, I didn’t. You haven’t mentioned it."

"Well, she doesn’t join us, she sits in the passage above my chamber. And she was quite downcast tonight."

"How do you know that?"

"I could feel it."

"Feel it? What do you mean?" Father searched Vincent’s face. "Like with Catherine?"

"No!" Vincent answered quickly, a little too quickly. "Not like that. More like what I feel with Lena, or with Diana, just a sense of empathy I suppose."

"I see. You realize of course, that both those woman professed a romantic attraction to you. You say she comes every night? Do you think..."

"I don’t think we can assume that. But of course she is all alone, and has been for we don’t know how long. I suspect she is very vulnerable. But Father, I have no reason to believe that she knows..." Vincent spread out his hands, looked down at them.

"About you?"

"She has not actually seen me. I’m sure of that; and it worries me."

"Vincent, you exaggerate the effects of your appearance."

"I don’t think so." Vincent answered quietly.

"Well, why don’t you ask Diana to explain to her about you the next time she comes down."

"I will." Both men are quiet for a moment.

"Vincent, ever since your experience with Lisa you have carried around with you a prejudice against yourself that supersedes the reality. I’ve often wished I could expunge that day from your memory."

"I’ve often wished that myself... Father, I’ve always meant to ask you, why did you whisk Lisa away from here after what happened? Didn’t you think it might have been better for me, better for both of us, if we had been able to talk about it afterward."

"Yes, of course. Believe me, it was something Mary and I discussed at length. And something we had discussed with Lisa as well. But she wasn’t trustworthy Vincent. She blamed you entirely, even though Mary had warned her repeatedly about her untoward behavior."

"Had she?"

"Oh yes. Mary was well aware of what was going on. Lisa would deliberately flutter about in front of all the boys, Devin and yourself included. She would tell one boy some ridiculous thing, and then the next week she would be spouting the same nonsense to another. One of the favorite lines in her repertoire was that someday she would dance for Kings and Queens, but she would only be dancing only for him, for the boy she was trying to beguile."

"I heard that myself."

"I’m not surprised. Mary had already appraised me of this. She was fearful that Lisa’s behavior would lead to an altercation between two or more of the boys. But of course, they had been up and out in the world, they were more able to recognize Lisa’s flirtatious behavior for what it was. You, unfortunately - were not. You were isolated here below. You took her at her word. However, Mary and I little suspected there would be far worse consequences to pay than fisticuffs."

Vincent nodded. "That was a painful lesson she learned."

"I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking of you. Vincent, since you were a young boy you felt the pain of your uniqueness. Yet that had mainly been because you couldn’t enjoy the freedom that the other boys did - you couldn’t go above - experience the world. But below, we all treated you like any other child in the community. So at least here, you never had to feel as if you were that different. But everything changed after that day, particularly the way you viewed yourself. I believe you began to see yourself as something of a monstrosity."

"I believe I did."

"You suffered that terrible attack not long after that incident. I’ve always believed that at least in part, what happened with Lisa precipitated it. Yet I couldn’t get her to see the damage she had inflicted upon you. Mary went so far as to suggest to Lisa that even if she didn’t feel partially responsible, she might at least tell you that she did, to assuage your guilt and pain. Lisa refused. That is when we decided it was best that she go above without seeing you again."

Vincent was sitting back with his fingertips pressed against each other, his hands supporting his chin. "I don’t know Father. I still wonder if maybe it wouldn’t have been best to allow the situation to resolve itself. I think you have always been too quick to jump in and intercede on my behalf."

"That could be true." Father conceded. "Look at how I resisted the idea of you and Catherine in the beginning. I was afraid your relationship with her would end the way it had with Lisa, with you, frustrated and alone, and wanting something you could never have."

"You were wrong about Catherine."

"Yes, I was. I didn’t know then, how courageous she was, and how deeply the two of you were attached to each other. Yes, I am glad to say I was very much mistaken about Catherine."

Vincent rose, lay his hand against Father’s cheek and kissed the top of his head.

"I’ll try not to disturb you when I return for Jacob." Vincent moved toward the door.

"Vincent. You were wrong too. You’ve allowed the scars from that day to become far more deeply imbedded inside of you then any of the ones you might have left on Lisa. Even with all the devotion and respect of everyone here, the affections of Lena and Diana, and most of all Catherine’s love, even with all this evidence, it hasn’t been sufficient, to make you see - you are not a monstrosity, not any part of you, not even close. You are a man that we all love very much."

Vincent gazed at Father, his head to one side; he smiled a self-deprecating smile, shaking his head.

"We’ll talk in the morning Father."

For the first time since the day in the park he actually felt uneasy. He left the tunnels through the junction door. He was not alone, some late night interlopers had staged a private concert near the band shell. A rag tag band of musicians with long dreads and colorful tee-shirts were drumming out a pounding rhythm on steel drums. The beat echoed through the park. Normally he would have listened with pleasure to this wild, upbeat music, but on this night his nerves jangled. He was too much on edge to enjoy the impromptu performance.

He returned below, trying to find a footing for his uneasy steps. It was not long in coming. The very air here was comforting. He breathed in the serenity. He once again was drawn to the painted tunnels. He would be patient. He would wait to speak to Rose until Diana could inform her of his abnormalities. And whatever was wrong, would be right again. He knew that, it was still in the air.