Sweet Karoline (25 page)

His
intake of breath, shaky and joyful, hisses through the wire. "I love you, too, Anne. For always."

We
both give a shy giggle. I say goodnight instead of goodbye and hang up. My hand rests on the instrument for a moment, unwilling to completely disconnect.

The
storm does not abate all night. My body never gives in to complete rest. I toss, turn, awaken, get up and check my locks obsessively. My dreams are indistinct mists of menace.

When
I enter the kitchen, Dembi and Miriam are already there. Cereal boxes and fruit line the counter. I grasp a cup of coffee like a lifeline. Unrelentingly gray and wet, the rain has not stopped, though the wind seems to have disappeared. No thunder roars and no lightning flashes. This is a straight-to-the ground shower.

"
I'm going shopping early to get it over with. We can't go treasure hunting in this weather and I have a list of things we need. Dee's here already. She's with Memé. Do you two want to come with me after all?"

"
No," Dembi says and straightens up.

Miriam
and I are a little shocked at his firmness, but we shrug and smile. Our brother is a mystery. I wonder what goes on inside his head. How he thinks. Which thoughts are coherent and which are not. It's intriguing how articulate he can be about history. How broad his reading vocabulary and how simple his other actions. As though the connections are wired wrong or the synapses misfire at different times.

"
I'll stay home, too. As long as you don't mind doing the shopping alone, of course." I'm a little concerned about Dembi but I keep this to myself. I'll try to get something out of him this morning. Besides, I'm still so tired.

"
I don't mind a bit. It's not a huge list. As long as you guys help me into the house with it. Okay, Dembi?"

"
I am strong," he answers.

"
Good. I'll need your help when I get back. I should be a couple of hours or so." In her raincoat, she looks like Little Red Riding Hood as she heads off to her car.

"
I'm going to get dressed, Dembi. Then do you want to visit Memé with me? We'll bring Dee some coffee."

"
Maybe," he replies without looking at me. His hands flap nervously. I wonder briefly why he's so upset this morning.

"
I'll see you in Memé's room in five minutes." I hope my statement will become a fact in his head.

I
throw on jeans and a t-shirt, make Dee's coffee, and head down the hall to Memé's room. Dembi isn't there. The big woman bustles around the room. She cleans up the breakfast things and prepares medication. Then she stops to sip her drink.

"
As you can see, Libby's sound asleep again," Melody whispers. "She's tired from all the recent activity, I guess."

Memé
and me both
, I think.

The
woman looks proud of her patient. I impulsively kiss her cheek.

"
I repeat. You are wonderful."

She
smiles and sips. I believe she's used to being called wonderful.

"
Have you seen Dembi?"

"
No, he hasn't stopped by this morning. Kind of unusual for him."

I
gather up Memé's breakfast dishes. "I'll go look for him. He seemed out of sorts earlier."

The
kitchen, where I deposit the bowl and plate on the counter, is empty. Out in the hallway I notice that the side door is unlocked once more. Inspecting the mechanism a bit closer I note that, once unlocked, the latch is loose fitting. I hazard a guess that unless the bolt has been slid into place from the inside, a good strong wind could push the door wide open. One mystery explained.

"
Dembi?" I ask the empty parlor, family, living and bed rooms. Nobody answers.

Back
in the hallway I check the coat closet. Dembi's raincoat, a copy of Miriam's red one, is missing. I wonder if he's gone treasure hunting on his own. The weather is still blustery and wet but he probably doesn't mind. After all, he's oblivious to the heat.

I
feel an urgency to check on him. Melody agrees. There's forest green gear in the closet that fits me nicely.

Immediately
I regret my decision to follow Dembi. It's miserable out here. The rain pelts down relentlessly. Not a gentle tropical shower but a vicious cold front angrily usurps the space from the summer weather. I have to lower my head and watch my feet as I slip-slide along the sodden ground. The weeds and grasses are slippery. Heavily soaked branches slap lazily at my waterproof jacket, forcing the water to drip into my boots. I am soon shivering, but the determination to find Dembi doesn't abate. Thinking about his odd behavior the last couple of days propels me forward.

It
's the red that I see first. Peering through the rain I catch a glimpse of his raincoat as he quickly races from the steps of the church. His head is down and I am hidden by a clump of trees. Dembi passes fairly close to me but is oblivious to my presence. I decide to see what he was up to inside the old building.

It
's dry in here. The only sound comes from the pounding water outside. Even the birds are quiet, huddled in the grey misery of the day. Now and then they emit a feeble trill of protest at my intrusion.

I
gaze upward at the choir loft, a small afterthought of a balcony constructed of dark wood. I wonder what it would have been like to stand up there singing for the congregation. The first thing I notice is the absence of the ladder. When I reach the altar, I can see the top rung jutting out along the floor. It's been pulled out of sight, just behind a set of pews at the side. Dembi's version of hiding it?

Now
I have to follow his footsteps, or what I surmise were his movements. I settle the ladder against the crumbled staircase. Jam it into the crevices on the floor. It feels sturdy enough. When I am at the top I feel a bit dizzy. The floor looks intact but some of the rungs of the railing are rotting, so I wonder. Nevertheless I crawl onto the platform and gingerly stand. There is enough room up here for one row of choristers. Behind the wooden bench, the cupboards take up the rest of the space.

Dembi
has left a fairly easy trail. One door is slightly ajar. When I open it I discover the papers and canvases that had been piled under his bed in the cave. Curious, I pull them out and spread them on the floor. I am astonished by what I discover. A chunk of our history falls into place.

Dear Diary,

Sorry
for not writing much, but I have been in such a good mood lately. Isn't it strange that most people only write in a diary when they're mad about something? Like poetry. It's always sad. Well, I'm not mad any more. I've figured it all out. Things are going to be just fine.

Chapter
23

I don't want to leave these here, vulnerable to thieves and rats. But can I risk taking them out into the elements? Back inside the cupboard, I find two big empty garbage bags. Obviously Dembi thought of the rain, too. Alongside these, there's a beaten-up wooden rectangle that I recognize as a travel paint box. I take it, too. Everything fits in the two bags. I ensure the door is fully closed this time.

Getting
it down the ladder is the hard part. Several times I almost drop the whole bundle. A couple of times I feel a dizzy fear that I will flop onto the stone floor any minute. But I make it down. I replace the ladder in its inadequate hiding spot.

Tossing
the bags over my shoulder like Santa Claus I fight my way through the bushes and the weather back to the farmhouse. I have no idea what I will say to Dembi if he sees me.

Fortunately
no one is around when I return. In my room I check the locks on the windows and doors. From the pantry I lift an old broom and wedge the handle between the sliding door and the frame. Once again I study the paintings.

They
are various dimensions from small sketches to medium-size canvases. Thick paper to thin and delicate. They are immediately recognizable. Their color, lines and subject matter are identical to the 1940's sketches in the Vryheid book, not to mention to the painting on my living room wall in Los Angeles.

Opening
the sliding door that leads from the back of the closet to the dark storage space, I bundle everything onto shelves or lean the larger ones against them. When everything is stored away I turn back to my bed and see with dismay that I have forgotten the paint box.

But
now I hear Dembi's voice. He calls my name as he wanders toward my room. I shove the box under my bed, exit my room and lock the door.

I
try to smile normally at him as he ambles down the hallway.

"
Triplet Anne!" he grins. "Miriam needs us to help."

He
seems to be in a better mood, as though his errand gave him some kind of relief.

We
rush through the kitchen and out into the pouring rain. By the time we have hauled the bags into the room we are drenched and laughing heartily. Melody comes by to see what's happening. We sprinkle her with water from our dripping fingers. The silliness helps steady my thinking. Slows the pounding of my excited pulse.

"
I'll make hot chocolate for you drenched rats," Dee offers.

Dembi
skips off toward his room.

"
Come with me," I urge Miriam, pulling on her sleeve.

While
I change into dry clothes, she examines the cache behind the cupboard. I explain its significance quickly but we don't have much time.

"
We have to talk to Dembi at some point," I say.

"
Let's wait until tonight. I need to think first. And we need to talk."

"
Agreed."

But
my pulse has quickened again. I'm excited, almost greedily so. I try to tamp down the intensity of my exhilaration.

We
rejoin Dee and Dembi in the kitchen. The hot chocolate is thick and creamy. Dembi appears to have returned to his old self, cheerful and good-natured. He and Rolly play with a string on the kitchen floor while we women sip our drinks at the table and talk.

"
Is it supposed to clear up for tomorrow?" Miriam asks.

We
have begun to assume that Dee knows everything.

"
So the weatherman says," she answers, because she does in fact know everything. "The rain should stop some time during the night and the prediction is that the morning will be lovely."

"
Do you think Memé is up to attending the powwow?" My turn.

"
I do. I can't believe the progress she has made. And as I said, the organizers always have boards and planks spread around. There are lots of elderly people who come to the powwows."

For
the first time in weeks Memé sits at her kitchen table for lunch. Although she is unable to say much—her voice is low and lacks the power of oxygen—she breathes out each of our names. Her eyes sparkle now. Life has crept back into them. Her crooked grin is a permanent fixture.

Afterwards,
our mother has a nap while Dee cleans and fusses. The alarm company representative is scheduled to arrive later this afternoon and clearly she wants to be ready. Dembi and Rolly play in the hallway with a ball of twine that they roll back and forth. The only sound is Dembi's delighted laugh and the scrabble of the cat's claws.

Miriam
and I take one of the bags of paintings from my cupboard and huddle in the parlor with the Bible.

Miriam
points to the records in the Bible with one of her short, clear nails. I look down at my own fingers, aware that I haven't noticed them in nearly two weeks. They are no longer long and shapely. My hair is no longer L.A.-primped. It's more rural-woodsy. I wonder if Ethan will recognize me. Which suddenly reminds me…

"
Miriam, Ethan is going to try and get a flight here for Sunday. Is it okay if he stays for a few days?"

She
grins at me. "Of course it is! This is just as much your house as it is mine."

It
is? My house? My home? I lower my head and look at my toes, which are also scrubbed clean of their bright pink nail polish. How can things have changed so rapidly? Am I still that shallow? Was I that unformed?

Miriam
brings me back from the shadows.

"
And besides, I can't wait to meet him. I feel like I know him already."

A
bunch of goose bumps congregate on my arms. Miriam is a wonder.

"
I'll prepare Memé and Dembi for his arrival." I add, "After the powwow."

Miriam
nods. Back to business.

"
Memé's brother, Cornwall the Third or fifth or whatever—Junior multiplied—was born in 1918. So he'd be 65 now. He disappeared around 1955. We have no idea if he was married or had kids because nothing is recorded here."

"
And we don't have any pictures either. Vera is our source, obviously."

"
If she even knows. You said she ran away when she was quite young. Maybe before Cornwall married or disappeared. The only time she returned seems to be when she came and got you."

"
Yes and after that she pretended the farm and all her siblings didn't exist."

"
Maybe she pretended way before that, too. She must've been ashamed of them."

"
Or frightened of them? If we believe Melody's tales, Vera would've had reason to fear them. The parents and their gang were drunkards and abusers."

Miriam
's face clouds with grief.

"
Those poor girls. Memé and Vera probably had it worse than the boys. Vera could've been sexually abused, too."

I
begin to feel even more sympathy for my adopted mother. Miriam is right. After all, Vera rescued me from probable abuse and gave me the best upbringing she could. Her limited emotional skills were likely a product of a dysfunctional childhood. She must have had to become callused to survive as a runaway, too.

I
reach into the bag and haul out a painting.

"
This is definitely a CoJon. It's so similar to the one we have on our living-room wall."

I
notice the 'we' and the 'our' but that painting is still attached to Karoline in my head.

"
Cornwall Johnston. CoJon."

Miriam
's voice is a whisper of awe. She lifts another painting out of the bag and studies it.

"
I didn't pay much attention when Karoline started buying paintings for her boss. But I do remember that CoJon was an enigmatic figure. No one ever interviewed him or had photographs of him. He was reportedly a native but they only based that on the style of his paintings. As it turns out, if we're right, which we are, he was part native."

"
With black and white mixed in," Miriam says. "A hybrid like us."

I
always thought of myself as a mongrel but I don't say that. Hybrid has a ring of pride to it.

"
CoJon sold his originals exclusively through an agent. Karoline said there were always rumors going around about both the agent and the artist. Like they were same sex lovers or the agent was really the artist. Or CoJon was a drunk who lived on the streets and the agent exploited him. All that kind of sensational stuff."

"
Probably helped to sell his art," Miriam responds.

We
are so engrossed in the paintings and our theories that we don't notice Dembi come into the room. Not until we hear him. At first, his keening is a low rumble in his throat, but before long he flaps and probes. The moan builds into a screech. He's fixated on the paintings, so I snatch Miriam's and stuff both hers and mine into the bag.

My
sister rushes over to Dembi and tries to gather him in her arms. He screams louder, the decibels so high that they vibrate in my soul. He turns on himself. Slaps and punches his head and face. He inadvertently slaps Miriam. I am afraid of him and for him. I remain rooted to my spot.

Dear Diary,

Do
you think a person can fake insanity? I mean, there's abnormal behavior, and then there's psychosis. I wonder if a person could pretend to be nuts by their behavior. They could do bad things and blame it on madness. I've read about lots of cases in L.A. where they say they're not guilty by reason of insanity. Are they just clever? Or do you have to be crazy to even think about doing something horrible and then claiming to be insane?