Gwendy's Magic Feather

44

FOR AS LONG AS Gwendy can remember, the Petersons have attended the 7:00 PM Christmas Eve mass at Our Lady of Serene Waters Catholic Church, and then gone crosstown to the Bradleys’ annual holiday party afterward. When she was a little girl, Gwendy would often spend the drowsy drive home with her head resting against the cool glass of her back-seat window, searching the night sky for a glimpse of Rudolph’s glowing red nose.

The church service tonight lasts a little more than an hour. Hugh and Blanche Goff, the Petersons’ longtime next-door neighbors, arrive a few minutes late. Gwendy happily scoots over to make room for them in the pew. Mrs. Goff smells like mothballs and peppermint breath mints, but Gwendy doesn’t mind. The Goffs were never able to have children of their own, and she’s like a surrogate daughter to them.

Gwendy closes her eyes and loses herself in Father Lawrence’s sermon, his soothing voice as much a part of her childhood memories as Saturday morning swims with Olive Kepnes at the Castle Rock Rec Pool. Few of the priest’s stories are new to her, but she finds his words and delivery comforting nonetheless. Gwendy watches the simple joy in her mother’s face as Mrs. Peterson sings along with the choir and, a short time later, stifles a giggle when Mr. Goff breaks wind during Holy Communion, earning a gentle elbow to the ribs from her father.

When the service is over, the Petersons file out with the rest of the congregation and stand outside of the church’s main entrance, mingling with friends and neighbors. The most boisterous greetings are reserved for Gwendy’s mom, as this is her first time back at church in weeks. There is one exception, however. Father Lawrence wraps Gwendy up in a bear hug and actually lifts her off the ground. Before he disappears back into the rectory, he makes her promise to come back soon. Once the crowd thins out, Gwendy walks Mr. and Mrs. Goff to their car in the parking lot, and then she follows her parents to the Bradleys’ mansion on Willow Street.

Anita Bradley—as Castle Rock gossips have enviously whispered for going on three decades now—married old and married rich. After her husband Lester, a wildly successful lumber tycoon nineteen years her senior, suffered a fatal heart attack in early 1991, many locals thought that once the funeral services were completed and legal matters attended to, Anita would pack up house and head for the sunny shores of Florida or maybe even an island somewhere. But they were wrong. Castle Rock was her home, Anita insisted, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

As it turns out, her staying was a very good thing for the town. Anita has spent the almost nine years since her husband’s death donating her time and money to a long list of local charities, volunteering her sewing expertise to help out the Castle Rock High School Theatrical Society, and serving as the head of the library’s Board of Trustees. She also makes a ridiculously delicious apple pie, which she sells at Nora’s Bake Shop all summer long.

A smiling and moderately tipsy Anita—her long, thick gray hair styled into some kind of gravity-defeating, triple-decker, power tower—welcomes the Peterson family inside her home with dainty hugs and papery soft (not to mention, sandpapery dry) kisses on their cheeks. The three-story Bradley house sprawls more than seven thousand square feet atop the rocky hillside and is filled with room after room of turn-of-the-century antiques. Gwendy has always been terrified of breaking something valuable. She takes her parents’ coats and, adding her own, leaves them draped over a Victorian sofa in the library. Then she heads into the bustling, high-ceiled great room, searching for familiar faces, anxious to make an appearance and get back home again.

But, as is often the case in Castle Rock, familiar faces her age prove difficult to find. Most of Gwendy’s close friends from high school never returned to The Rock after attending college. Like her, many of them took jobs in nearby Portland or Derry or Bangor. Others moved to distant states, only returning for occasional visits with parents or siblings. Brigette Desjardin is one of only a small handful of exceptions to this rule, and appears to be the only one in attendance here at the Bradleys’ annual Christmas party. Gwendy bumps into her by the punch bowl—there are no unfortunate spills this time around—and enjoys a spirited but brief conversation with Brigette and her husband Travis before a PTA friend of Brigette’s drunkenly interrupts them. Gwendy smiles and moves on.

Of course, there are plenty of others waiting to speak with Gwendy. While familiar faces are scarce, friendly—and merely curious—faces are not. It seems as if everyone there wants a photo or a quick word or two with the Celebrity Congresswoman, and the barrage of questions comes fast and furious:

Where’s your husband? Where’s Ryan? (“Overseas working on assignment.”)

How’s your mom feeling? (“Much better, thank you, she’s here somewhere, I’m actually trying to find her.”)

What’s President Hamlin really like? (“Ummm… he’s a handful.”)

How’s it going down there in DC? (“Oh, it’s going okay, trying to fight the good fight every day.”)

Why aren’t you drinking? Hold on, let me grab you something. (“No, thanks, really, I’m kind of tired and not much of a drinker.”)

What about those missing girls? (“It’s terrible and it’s frightening, and I know the sheriff and his people are doing everything humanly possible to find them.”)

I saw you running the other night. Don’t you ever get tired of all that running? (“Actually, no, I find it relaxing—that’s why I do it.”)

How worried should I be about what’s going on with North Korea? Do you think we’re going to war? (“Don’t lose any sleep over it. A lot of awfully bad things would have to happen for the United States to go to war, and I don’t believe it’s going to happen.”) Gwendy’s not so sure about this last one, but she figures it’s part of her job to keep her constituents calm.

By the time she locates her parents sitting in a corner on the opposite side of the room talking to a co-worker from Dad’s office (the man also requests a “real quick photo,” which Gwendy dutifully smiles for), she feels like she’s just finished an all-day publicity whirlwind for one of her book releases. She also has a splitting headache.

Once they’re alone, she tells her parents she’s exhausted and asks if they’ll be okay at the party without her. Her mom fusses that Gwendy needs to stop working so hard and orders her right home to bed. Her father gives her a sarcastic look and says, “I think we can survive without your guiding light for one night, kiddo. Go home and get some rest.” Gwendy swats him on the arm, kisses them both goodnight, and starts across the room toward the library to get her coat.

That’s when it happens.

A muscular hand reaches out from the sea of people and grabs Gwendy by the shoulder, spinning her around.

“Well, well, well, look who it is.”

Caroline Hoffman suddenly looms in front of her, bloodshot eyes narrowed into slits. The hand gripping Gwendy’s shoulder begins to squeeze. Her free hand balls into a meaty fist.

Gwendy glances around the room, looking for help… but Mr. Hoffman is nowhere in sight, and none of the other partygoers seem to have noticed what’s happening. “Mrs. Hoffman, I don’t know what—”

“You make me sick, you know that?”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t know—”

The hand squeezes harder.

“Let go of me,” Gwendy says, shrugging the woman’s hand off of her. She can smell Mrs. Hoffman’s breath—and not beer, the hard stuff. The last thing she wants to do is antagonize her. “Listen, I appreciate the fact that you’re upset and you don’t like me very much, but this isn’t the time or the place.”

“I think it’s the perfect time and place,” Mrs. Hoffman says, an ugly sneer spreading across her face.

“For what?” Gwendy asks heavily.

“For me to kick your stuck-up little ass.”

Gwendy takes a step back, raising her hands in front of her, in shock that this is actually happening.

“Is everything okay?” a tall man Gwendy has never seen before asks.

“No,” she says, voice trembling. “No, it’s not. This woman has had too much to drink and needs a ride home. Can you help her find someone? Or perhaps you can call her husband?”

“I’d be happy to.” The man turns to Mrs. Hoffman and tries to take her arm. She shoves him away. He slams into a couple behind him, knocking the other man’s wineglass out of his hand. It tumbles to the floor and shatters—and now everyone in the room is staring at the tall stranger and Mrs. Hoffman.

“What are y’all gawking at?!” she slurs, the color rising in her chubby cheeks. “Buncha blue-ballers!”

“Oh, my,” someone behind Gwendy says.

Gwendy takes advantage of the distraction and quickly slips away into the library where she digs out her coat from the now massive pile on the sofa. She puts it on, rubbing away furious tears, and starts pacing in front of the sofa. How dare she put her hands on me? How dare she say those things? Pacing faster now, she can feel the heat intensifying throughout her body. All I was trying to do was help her rude ass and she acts like—

A loud crash comes from the next room.

And then cries of alarm.

Gwendy hurries back into the great room, afraid of what she might find.

Caroline Hoffman is lying unconscious on the hardwood floor, her arms splayed above her head. A nasty gash on her forehead is bleeding heavily. A crowd has gathered around her.

“What happened?” Gwendy asks no one in particular.

“She fell,” an old man, standing in front of her, says. “She’d calmed down some and was walking out on her own and she just spun around and fell and hit her head on the table. Darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It was almost like somebody pushed her,” another woman says. “But there wasn’t anybody there.”

Remembering the flush of anger she’d just experienced and a long-forgotten dream about Frankie Stone, Gwendy stumbles out of the house in a daze and doesn’t look back.

Head spinning, it takes her several minutes to remember where she parked her car. When she finally locates it near the bottom of the Bradleys’ long driveway, she gets in and drives home in silence.