“She had other things on her mind.”
Shelley shook her head. “Interesting. And you’re sure there’s a plane available today?”
“They said there’d been a cancellation. You’re not afraid to fly with me, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m sure you’re very capable.”
Jess stole a glance at her professor. She remembered Shelley’s look of surprise when she suggested they fly to Binghamton that afternoon. They could be there and back by supper.
But this wasn’t just an excuse to log some hours. She needed to meet Sarah’s family. She needed some background on the case. And most importantly, she needed to know just what could be so horrible to make a mother give up her own child.
"The family had been through too much and it was too painful for them. They agreed to sign a voluntary placement agreement, with me acting as guardian. There was a custody transfer. It was the only way they could deal with what they were doing."
"You mean they didn’t want to give her up?"
"There’s more to it than that. I’d rather just let you see and judge for yourself."
She stopped the car in front of the one-room lounge and office and turned off the ignition. The engine ticked in silence. “Could I ask you something? Why did you decide to tell me about Sarah’s family now?”
“I felt it was essential to your diagnosis and the development of your and Sarah’s relationship. I’d always felt that way, but Evan disagreed. The family had requested anonymity. And there are other reasons that you’ll understand soon enough.
“I want you to know that ordinarily I wouldn’t agree to something like this. But I think we do owe you this much.”
Jess nodded. “You’re sure you don’t want to call the family and let them know we’re coming?”
“I don’t think they’d agree to see you. It will be more difficult for them to refuse when we’re standing on their front step.”
The plane, a class-four V-tail Beechcraft Bonanza in brown and white, was tethered outside the lone hangar. The Bonanza had a variable pitch propeller, an oil-operated device that rotated on its axis and worked like a gearshift in a car; in high pitch the angle of the blades took a bigger bite out of the air and allowed for a higher cruising speed.
It was her favorite plane. When she’d first joined the club she trained with a Cessna 150 High Wing. It took her three months to move up to the Bonanza, and that only because she had to find hours between her classes.
Jess filed a VFR flight plan and prepared herself as she always did, checking the plane by hand, a familiar thrill hastening her step and quickening her fingers. It would be an easy flight and the weather looked clear. Soon they were on the runway and the throb of the engines increased to a steady buzzing pitch as she tipped the throttle, the edges of the ground flashing and blurring and finally slipping away as the plane lumbered into the air.
Fifteen minutes later they were at a cruising speed of 150 knots. Jean Shelley sat silently by her side and watched out the window as the ground slid by far below their feet. Jess wondered again about her professor; what did she do on her off-hours? The legends continued to grow. When she’d mentioned to a fellow student that she was working with Shelley outside of class, the girl had looked at her as if she’d just sprouted an extra head.
Some said Shelley belonged to a cult. It was rumored that she had spent a month in the Himalayas, searching for spiritual peace on the back of a donkey. There were stories of strange-looking bag lunches and greenish liquid in thermoses. And yet none of these things seemed to damage her professional reputation. She remained as aloof and unreachable as ever. It was as if her students were afraid to ask, for fear of what she might say.
They rented a car in Binghamton for the drive to Gilbertsville, passed through narrow, shadowed streets lined with two-story clapboards and Victorians with new plastic gutters and sagging front porches. Dogs napped in long grass. Swing sets moved gently in the afternoon breeze.
Jess stopped and asked directions at a gas station with two pumps and a sign that said please pump, then pay. The girl behind the counter looked at her for a long moment and then got out a map. She ought to know better, the look said. We protect our own here. But Jess’s clothes and manner of speaking seemed to convince the girl she was up to no harm.
The Voorsanger family lived in the foothills on land that looked rippled from above, crests of tree-covered forest and valleys with silver streams twisting through the depths.
On the ground the area looked tired, as if the land were molting. The leaves were changing on the trees, some of them already littering the earth and turning the shoulders of road into brown, soggy resting places.
A dirt road led through a copse to a wide yard and a farmhouse with a long, narrow barn in back. The house was slowly falling to dust. A station wagon sat listing to one side on the lawn. Pulled off the shoulder was a pickup truck with wooden slats in the bed. Mud caked the wheel wells and spattered across the fenders.
When they stepped from the car the air was crisp, clear, with a hint of smoke. Jess recognized the scent of burning leaves. Smoke curled up from behind the barn and they moved quickly in that direction.
Damn but it was cold. Jess wished she’d brought gloves. Stuffing her hands in her pockets would keep her warmer, but she knew it would not look friendly.
A dog barked from somewhere inside the barn. As they cleared the back of the house a man came into distant view, wearing overalls, a plaid hat with earflaps, and strong leather work gloves. He was throwing leaves and branches onto a fire already piled high and smoking thickly. His breath puffed silver in his face. At the sound of the dog he stopped and brushed his hands together and then turned in their direction.
“Mr. Voorsanger? Excuse me, Mr. Voorsanger.”
The man stood motionless for a moment, as if deciding something; then he strode toward them. The front of his overalls was stained a dull brown. He was a tall, older man, grim-faced, with deeply lined cheeks and chapped skin. The lines in his flesh were so deep it looked as if someone had carved them with a knife. He looked worn and serious, a man who expected everyone to work as hard as he did.
When he got near them he stopped; then, looking long and hard at Shelley, he said, “Thought we had a deal. You wasn’t supposed to come back here.”
“That’s my fault, Mr. Voorsanger,” Jess said. “I’m the one responsible for bringing her here. We’ve come a long way to speak to you. If we could just have a moment?”
“That ain’t possible,” the man said abruptly. “We don’t want nothing to do with you like we said before. Nothing’s changed. If that’s all, I got a lot to do.”
He started to turn away, then stopped again at the sound of a screen door banging, and a woman in a faded dress and apron hurrying out of the house. Jess saw his eyes change. “You’re gonna catch cold, now, go on back inside,” he said to her.
“Just a moment, Ed.” The woman had her arms wrapped around herself. She was plump, in her sixties, with shoulder-length white hair and a soft, expressive face. Her eyes darted from face to face, fishing for something. “You here to tell us something about our girl?”
“She needs your help,” Shelley said. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you if we had any other choice.”
“She hasn’t… done nothing, has she?”
“We’re worried about her own well-being.”
The woman nodded. “That’s the way it is, then. Why don’t you come inside? Ed, you go on now. I’ll call you when we’re done.” She looked at him and he didn’t move; then finally he walked away, and didn’t look back. They all watched him until he had returned to the fire again, and he bent and started throwing leaves and branches to the flames.