Meriden, specifically how both had changed over the years during Michelle Oliveira's disappearance. In 1997, when
Michelle was abducted, more than forty percent of
Meriden residents lived below the poverty line. The median income was a shade over $28,000. And more than sixty percent of residents had one or more children.
Today, the median income was more than $45,000, and was growing at a rate far larger than the national average.
Plus, only nineteen percent of residents currently lived below the poverty line. Yet less than half of residents now lived with children. I wondered if Michelle's abduction had anything to do with this. Whether the horrific nature of Michelle's disappearance convinced families it simply wasn't safe to raise a family here.
From what I could tell, this was a city that seemed to want to right the wrongs of its past. A city that desperately wanted to prove it was safe for girls like Michelle. And whatever part of the city didn't want to improve, it would remain contentedly criminal. A place where a girl could be abducted, and her abductors could remain free. That part of the city would be what it always was, and whatever happened was simply God's-or the criminal's-will.
I stood outside for a moment, unsure of what to look for, until a honking car horn brought my attention to the
Chrysler sitting alone in the lot. A woman was in the driver's seat. I could see her through the windshield, an uncomfortable look on her face. She didn't want to be here. I walked over, peered in through the passenger-side window.
"Delilah Lancaster?" I said.
She nodded, said, "Get in."
I obeyed. She started the engine as I buckled my seat belt. We peeled away from the station, leaving the tracks in our wake.
Her car was if not new then new er. A black 300 model, it had less than ten thousand miles on it, and there were no telltale signs of wear and tear on the interior. A classical station played on the radio, and I noticed Delilah's hand moving in nearly perfect rhythm, sliding gently up and down the steering-wheel cover as though she was conducting the symphony herself.
Delilah Lancaster was in her early forties. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a few errant streaks of gray shining through like silver threads. Her face had aged gracefully, the lines and striations of a woman who was comfortable in growing older. She moved delicately but with purpose, her eyes fixed on the road.
We sat in the car for several minutes, neither of us speaking. She drove past several streets of well-maintained homes. We passed by those into a less-friendly part of town that resembled the train station in its sense of abandonment. When we stopped in front of an empty building, I turned toward her to ask where we were.
"I agreed to talk to you," she said, her hands still on the wheel despite the engine being off. "But I don't want it in my house or in any place of business or pleasure. That's the agreement."
I nodded, reached into my bag for a tape recorder. She eyed it, curled her lip.
"This is also part of the agreement," I said. "You have to go on the record." She nodded. I turned the recorder on.
"You know I went through all this seven years ago," she said. "The police questioned me many times. I know I got scared that night, but all those police, I thought somebody had been killed. For a moment I thought it might have been
Michelle. All I know is, one day I was Michelle Oliveira's tutor, the next day she was gone from this world, and then several years later she rose like the phoenix."
"Why did you think she might have been killed? That seems like you were jumping to a pretty terrible conclusion."
"When you've lived in this city as long as I have, you've seen young boys killed because they were targeted by rival dealers. When you've seen young girls caught in the cross fire, then you can say that I'm jumping to conclusions. I did think Michelle might have been another victim.
That she'd been taken away forever."
"Well, now she's at Juilliard," I said. A slight smile crossed Delilah Lancaster's lips.
"She's the most talented individual I've ever had the pleasure of working with," Delilah said. "The moment I walked into the Oliveira home for the first time and listened to that girl play, the French bow moving in her hand like the wind, I knew it. French bows are mainly used by soloists, and most young students don't even know the difference. But Michelle, she made her father buy a French bow. Nothing else would suffice. Most young girls have posters on their walls of their favorite bands, their favorite athletes, boys they have crushes on. Do you know what
Michelle Oliveira had posted on her wall?"
I said I didn't.
"You're aware that most girls that age don't have posters, or much of anything on their walls. They haven't yet begun to have crushes, and wouldn't know who
Orlando Bloom was compared to Barack Obama. But
Michelle, she had a poster on her wall. I don't even know where she got it, or how. But right on her wall, above her bed, was a picture of Charles IX."
I waited for an explanation. "Is that a King of England or something?"
Delilah shook her head. "Charles IX is the oldest violin in existence. It was made in 1716 by Antonio Stradivari.
It is kept in pristine condition at the Ashmolean museum in Oxford. You can imagine this is not exactly a common item for a five-year-old to worship."
"Stradivari-is he related to the Stradivarius?"
"The same," she said.
"For a young child to hold such an instrument in this regard, it simply made my heart float. When she disappeared-" Delilah lowered her head, clasped her hands together "-I felt like I'd lost a kindred spirit. Someone who understood the beauty and passion of music like so few do in their lives. And to lose her at such a young age-I thought a great student had been taken. A shame in so many ways. And when Michelle came back, I thanked God for keeping one of his finest creatures on this earth."
"You really cared for Michelle, didn't you?" I asked.
Delilah looked at me. " Still care. I do care for her the way a teacher looks at a prized pupil, yes. But our bond went deeper than that. I cared more for Michelle than I did most of my friends and-" she sighed "-perhaps most of my family."
I looked at Delilah's hand, barren of any rings. She noticed this.
"My husband died three years ago. Pulmonary embolism. Life hits you when you never expect it. But I still have my music. That, at least, is everlasting. And one day
Michelle will create a composition that will stand the test of time. That students, like she once was, will study."
Delilah looked out over her town, the barren building in front of her.
"This city has changed so much. So many people left after what happened to Michelle. I didn't blame them. I have no children, but if I did I couldn't justify raising them here. Now young families, dare I say yuppies, have moved into those houses. Rats joining a ship. I never thought I would see that in Meriden."
"You're against gentrification?" I asked.
"It pays my bills," she said. "And allows me more leisure time than I previously had. But Lord, if I could find one truly talented student in the bunch, it would make my year."
"Not many children like Michelle come along," I said.
"No," she agreed. "No, they don't."
"Aside from the obvious, was there anything about
Michelle that was different when she came back? Did she ever mention a family member, a friend, somebody you didn't recognize?"
Delilah shook her head. "Michelle didn't have many friends. The gifted ones never do."
"Did she strike you as different in any way? After she returned?"
Delilah thought for a moment. "She became more withdrawn. Michelle was once a vibrant, popular girl, but she never fit in again. You can't explain to a young girl why people are staring at her, knowing she can't possibly understand exactly what happened. One night, a few days after she came back, I thought I saw scarring on her arm, but I decided it was just a pimple, some kind of adolescent puberty thing. It saddened me to see such a lovely girl just have her soul sucked away. But what person wouldn't after going through something like that?"