Free The Book of James by Ellen J. Green Page B

unpack my belongings,
    but my eyelids felt heavy. The bed was comfortable and inviting; I shut my eyes and listened to the sound of wind against the panes, letting my mind wander.
    Images of people crowded into the dank hal ways below flick-
    ered through my thoughts. Men, women, and children huddled
    together, trying to stay warm. The frightened murmurs of hushed
    voices called to me. The smell of sweat, urine, and fear filled my nostrils.
    I woke, heart pounding, to complete darkness. The only light
    in the room came from the il uminated face of the clock on the
    nightstand. It was past six o’clock. Everything ached as if I had slept too long, and it took a second for me to get my bearings.
    Before I’d reached the window, things came back to me.
    “Cora’s house,” I mumbled.
    Lightning split the sky wide open; rain beat against the win-
    dows. I put my head to the glass and looked out into the distance.
    I had always loved storms as a child. The sky lit up again and il uminated the grounds and the woods at the edge of the clearing.
    THE BOOK of JAMES
    71
    So much land. So isolated. I wanted to go to the main house to
    find Cora, but cutting through the yard to the front was out of the question. My only choice was to go back through the tunnels and
    try to find that marble staircase.
    The tunnels were dark, the wal s cool and slightly damp to the
    touch. A single lightbulb lit the walkway. I followed the path in the same direction I had come before, but I grew confused when the
    tunnel split. One passage twisted off into darkness. I had no idea which way to go. “My God,” I whispered.
    I stood at the fork and contemplated which one might bring
    me back to the main house. They were both dimly il uminated by
    light fixtures set into the rounded, carved-out ceiling. They looked nearly identical.
    “The left. I’ll go to the left.”
    My hands ran along the coarse wal s, guiding me as I went.
    Final y I saw an end and sighed with relief. The marble staircase.
    Until then I had never realized the extent of my discomfort in
    smal , confined places. My hands trembled as I reached for the
    railing.
    A narrow black door to the right of the stairway caught my
    attention. I hadn’t seen it when I’d passed through with Cora earlier. Probably because I was more concerned with what seemed, at
    the time, like a descent into hel . The door blended into the darkness and was barely noticeable. It was bomb-shelter solid, with a small silver knob. I turned the handle and stepped inside.
    The room inside was cramped, sparsely furnished with a small
    love seat, but the wal s kept me riveted in one spot near the door.
    They were completely covered with photographs. There were large
    ones and small ones, group shots and portraits. Pictures of the
    house, the grounds. Some were older, from decades ago, maybe
    even more than a century before. I walked closer, almost afraid
    to breathe. Nick’s family, his past, was here, fastened behind glass with nails and wire.
    72
    ELLEN J. GREEN
    I walked in circles, admiring the work. There was a picture of
    Nick when he was about ten at a birthday party, and one with a
    man who must have been his father, all decked out in fishing gear.
    I saw the fine, chiseled features that I had known so well slowly emerge from Nick’s chubby, boyish face. After I had turned full
    circle in the room and inspected a stained sink, I sat on the love seat, just taking it all in. This was more than simply photography; it was a gallery. It was history.
    There was a pattern in the way the photographs were arranged.
    Pictures that looked like they were taken at the turn of the century hung on one wal . A man smiled into the camera. His eyes were
    alive with something. Like he was just about to burst into laughter when the camera flashed. Cora’s grandfather, maybe. The next section of the wall was devoted to another man. His eyes were pene-
    trating, almost frightening. His long, angular face and sharp, harsh