The Memento (17 page)

We heard the far-off rumble of an engine and I went calling for the others to come back. We stood in a line as the long black car with tinted windows gleamed through the leaves and turned into the drive.

“Well, ain’t it good to see Dr. Baker is still driving Mr. Lincoln,” Hector said. He was all cleaned up, wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

“Looks like a hearse to me.” Margaret watched as the car came around toward us.

The car rolled to a stop and idled in front of us, the tinted windows reflecting our faces. I wondered if anyone was even in there. Maybe what was looking for me could drive. I wondered if whoever was in the back was looking out at us, wondering if
we
were real. We’d mostly observed the Parkers from a distance. They seemed to have crawled out of them paintings of landscapes and galas in the big house. Marigold in the gardens, Mr. Charlie and Estelle, the Colonel marching in his uniform thinking he was back in the war, and Pomeline sitting on a marble bench writing in her journal. When she wasn’t playing the piano or singing she was skipping through Evermore or writing in her journal. Mostly lyrics and love poems, Jenny said. That was back before Pomeline locked her journals so Jenny couldn’t pry.

Estelle thought we was strange country children, that we’d corrupt her precious child. Even back then we could plainly see how little Estelle knew her own daughter. It was Jenny picking rose
thorns off and leaving them on the stone bench where her mother liked to sit. It was Jenny who would feed her lunch to the swans. Jenny who would drop her dishes on the stone path. She said she liked the sound of things breaking. And she never pretended she didn’t do it. She was accident-prone, Estelle and Marigold would say. Jenny’s skin was thin, and it affected her grip. Jenny would just stand there, hiding in plain sight behind her big thick glasses, her crooked grin for me and Art. She didn’t even mind falling. The pain of it reminded her life wasn’t a dream, she told us once.

Hector cleared his throat. “Christ-on-a-stick-shift, I can feel the winds of time passing over me.” Sweat trickled down his chin. Margaret snickered. It was like they’d pulled up to the wrong house. Art and I started laughing from nerves.

Loretta shushed us. “They’ll be out soon enough.”

Hector wiped his hands on his pants and boldly walked over to the car. He opened the back door. “How you all doin’ in there?” he said. “We got the place all spiffed up for you. Welcome to Petal’s End. No time like the present, as my daddy likes to say.”

“Hector!” Loretta gasped, but as she spoke a white gloved hand drifted out and into Hector’s callused palm. He guided Mrs. Marigold Parker out of the car in her elegant summer dress and her blue sapphire pendant the Colonel gave her so long ago. Her face was still tight and droopy at the same time. From under the great brim of her summer hat Marigold gazed around Petal’s End as though she was waiting for someone else to come running down the steps to greet her.

The car engine finally turned off. We heard angry voices through the open door. Estelle and Pomeline. Marigold shuttered her eyes, an irritated look coming over her. Estelle appeared with her regular facial expression, which suggested she was about to start yelling. Art thought that’s why she looked strained all the time, because she was always shouting inside her head. She took handfuls of pills for her colossal head pains. Her expression
screamed that she had been born into a cruel world that forced her to endure imbeciles. She was a good nurse, Loretta told me once, because Estelle never doubted and never strayed from a course once she was on it. Her face was elegant on the rare occasion she was in repose. It was an embroidery picture to me, as though her features had been carefully put on by expert fingers. It was when Estelle opened her eyes and spoke that the loveliness frayed.

That good-looking part of her reeled Charlie in. The rumour was Charlie only married Estelle because she was pregnant with Pomeline. Ma said Nurse Estelle got along so fine with Dr. Baker that it seemed odd when she hooked her star to Charlie’s instead. An unlikely match, my mother said. Charlie didn’t like the ladies, just his mother, until Estelle come striding through. The Colonel wanted his son married and so Charlie did what was expected. There was nothing Marigold could do either but keep smiling.

Margaret was rubbing her eyes in wonder. Pomeline Parker was next out of the car, her long blond hair glittering in the sunlight. She had on a sapphire ring that Marigold gave her, just like the one she gave to Jenny. Her beautiful hands with them long graceful fingers made just for playing the piano. They were her future, she would say. The only one without a shiny blue stone was Estelle.

Pomeline gave Marigold a black cane with a silver rose handle. “Look at you children, growing up so fast. Fancy, we’ll do piano lessons. Loretta, you’ll have to put up with us. You’ve probably enjoyed the quiet summers without us here but we won’t make too much fuss and bother, will we, Granny?”

Dr. Baker was right smack behind Pomeline, shaking our hands with his dry palm, his hand soft and gentle like his words, saying how wonderful we kept the place. He was like the mayor greeting his citizenry. He had this way of taking your hand, squeezing it a bit as he looked in your eyes like you was the only person alive who mattered.

Marigold squeezed Hector’s shoulder and reached up to pat his cheek. “Clyde. Oh, Clyde, how lovely to see you.”

Estelle stood beside the car, her index finger on her temple. “That’s not Clyde. It’s his son, Hector. Hec-tor. It’s not practical for you to be staying here, Marigold. Nor is it safe. We have some hard decisions to make. You’re not going to live forever. That’s apparent to everyone but you, it seems.” Estelle had usually been able to keep her hatred wrapped up in a thin paper of civility in front of the help. “H-e-c-t-o-r,” Estelle said again.

“Yes, of course it is. Hector. Clyde’s your father, isn’t he, darling?” Marigold said. She was still holding Hector’s hand. “You look just like your father, young man, exactly like him. Clyde worked for us on occasion. He had that funny expression he used to say. ‘Don’t it slice you right up.’ He had such a country way with words. And he was constantly singing those shameful love songs to his horses.”

“Oh, I’m a bit like my father and not much like him at the same time. I’m good with engines, like he was. Me, well, I don’t sing, but if I did it would only be to a fine-looking woman.” Hector laughed, and I noticed his big hands, so careful with Marigold.

Marigold took a few steps toward the house, running her eyes over the line of us, finally landing on Loretta. Marigold chuckled, “Oh my goodness, Loretta, you haven’t changed at all. I told you they couldn’t keep me away. Soon we’ll be promenading the gardens singing the songs and canticles I loved so well as a girl. Making rosewater and soaps, entertaining guests. Sipping iced mint tea. Eating Lady Dundee cake in Evermore and sipping Campari and lime over crushed ice before dinner. Loretta, I do hope you’ll make some rosewater and pistachio ice cream. We have enjoyed the jams and jellies and vinegars you’ve sent to the city. And of course, my herbal remedies—it’s the herbal remedies that are keeping me alive. Some traditions are worth preserving, aren’t they? It will be just as it was, steaming up the Water House.”

Estelle looked up from her perfect fingernails. “So this is who will be running the place this summer, a bunch of children? Loretta, you have your work cut out for you. Marigold has invited her cousin Harold Prescott and his wife to spend the summer. I don’t know if she’s told you that bit of news yet. She’s also planning on reviving the garden party again, in mid August. It defies all good sense. Marigold, it’s ridiculous. I’m sorry but you simply must understand that we are obliged to let some things go. Honest to God, I’m so tired of this. There hasn’t been a party at Petal’s End in years.” She paused. “I’m dying of thirst.”

Marigold tapped her cane. “Well, Estelle darling, perhaps you should have a drink before you leave, which, my dear, I’m sure will be soon. Loretta, I’m sorry I couldn’t come out for the sensational spring flowers.”

“Well, Mrs. Parker,” Loretta said, “you are on time for the summer blooms.”

Estelle let out a dramatic puff of air.

“Really, Estelle, I understand you don’t enjoy flora and fauna. Concrete and asphalt are more your taste. That’s perfectly fine, of course. Each to their own. Brutalism, I believe, is the architectural term. There was a marvellous program on the radio about modern architecture. I do enjoy the radio in the winter. I’m sure it’s very engaging for you, these contemporary perspectives. I am a holdover from a more genteel time. No one likes an intense woman. It’s coarse. Try to have a bit more
sang-froid
. You really must learn to relax. Isn’t that so, Dr. Baker?”

Dr. Baker nodded. It was hard to tell if he was just humouring her.

“And yes, Loretta, we will be having houseguests, and we will be having the garden party. I’m sure Harry and his wife, Sakura, will be happy to help. Outdoor enthusiasts, both of them! He met her when he went off to exotic parts of the world to research and he stole her away. So romantic. She showed him how to eat with chopsticks. Doesn’t that sound adventurous? I’m sure she’s a darling, just
like dear cousin Harry. Sakura means cherry blossom. Isn’t that precious? I missed the cherry blossoms as well. What comfort it brings to close my eyes and imagine Petal’s End flowering, knowing that even when I am not here the gardens continue on.” Marigold yawned. “I’m parched myself. Nothing like a bit of time with family to bring on a long, dry thirst. A tall cool glass of lemon balm tea is just what I need. With a few rose petals.”

Estelle massaged her jaws and opened her mouth to speak, but Dr. Baker interrupted.

“This is no way to start the summer. Estelle, Marigold has decided what she wants to do. Let us please stop this.” His tone then made me think of what Art and Hector had said they’d overheard. “The place looks beautiful. Well done, Loretta and Hector, for such well-executed preparations.”

Loretta said Dr. Baker always had a pleasant bedside manner, right from the time when he replaced his father, the first Dr. Baker, and come here to work in the final years they had the summer hospital retreat. He and Charlie were a fine pair of chums, she said. Charlie was handsome and charming, and Dr. Baker was the calm and reliable one. Dr. Baker wasn’t a crazy-person doctor, but after his father retired they brought him out for the general health concerns of the soldiers.

“Mrs. Parker?” Loretta was tired from the theatrics. “You’ll be wanting to meet Margaret Armstrong.” Loretta put her arm behind Margaret and moved her forward.

“Margaret, darling, how do you do? I’m sorry for all of this. We Parkers can be a bit tempestuous. We’ll have a wonderful summer, the two of us.” She pinched Margaret’s cheek. “You could have lovely skin, darling. I can make you a tincture to help make things smooth, to settle those blemishes. Such a pity Agatha isn’t here. She knows the old ways. I have a passion for botanicals, a special understanding that Agatha has inherited directly from me.”

Margaret tried to do some awkward curtsey thing.

Estelle took out a cigarette. She was rooting through her purse when Hector rushed over to her with his big silver lighter and she blew out a thank-you, waving him away.

Dr. Baker patted me on the head. “Fancy Mosher. Are you in trouble yet?”

I giggled. There was something boyish about him.

I asked where Jenny was and Pomeline answered. “She’s in the city. She hasn’t been feeling well. Obsessing over things, as per usual. She’s into snowflakes now, you know. No, wait, that’s her winter symbol. She has a crystal snowflake Granny gave her that she wears around her neck but she’s changed it for a silver locket with a rose petal. She says flower petals are summer’s snowflakes.”

“Pomeline. Please. It’s not your sister’s fault she’s delicate. She was born under different circumstances than you so, please … you know better.”

Marigold glared at Pomeline. “It’s perfectly fine Agatha has such an imagination. How else is one to have an inspired life? Creativity is a gift. She’s a very clever girl. Pomeline, you simply are not patient enough with her, the poor frail thing. You’re six years older than her and you should be setting a proper example.”

“Oh Granny, you indulge her as much as Mother does. You know she prefers Jenny.”

“Jenny then, if you insist, although Agatha is a more graceful name. It was my mother’s name. She was a woman who understood tradition, as Jenny does. Jenny’s interested in more than just the piano. She wants to come out and learn what I did out in the Water House. She isn’t interested in picking flowers like most young girls, and I certainly don’t understand
that
, but she was always more practical than you, Pomeline. Jenny appreciates my expertise. You’d do well to find some purpose for your life, not just pounding at the keys all day. Margaret, you’ll adore my sweet rosewater. We’ll be brewing some of that up. You can take a spoonful a day and it will clear up your skin in no time at all. I used to make a serum to calm
the skin from rosehip, lavender and calendula. And, oh, to make some lavender soap. I used to have my own cottage industry. We’d go wildcrafting for wood violets and lady’s slippers.”

The heat was crushing and we were relieved when Marigold turned toward the house. She stopped, resting on her cane, her face trembling. She was staring at me. I was squeezing the little embroidery I did for her in my pocket. I had redone the face and now was anxiously rubbing the stitches. Marigold gasped like she was having an attack. She lifted her hand and pointed, her top lip twisted. My heart throbbed in my ears and the tight air closed in. Suddenly a cardinal sang out, and the sounds of summer come rushing back. Pomeline and Dr. Baker and Loretta hurried over to Marigold.

Dr. Baker cleared his throat. “Now, my dear, what is it? It’s only Fancy Mosher. She’s grown up so much in a year.”

“Why yes, Mrs. Parker, it’s just Fancy,” Loretta said.

Pomeline was frowning. “She’s frightened to death, Granny, look at the poor girl.”

Marigold shook her head and snapped out of whatever had seized her. “Oh. Yes. I don’t know what overcame me. Fancy looks like her mother. No doubt she’s a Mosher.” It didn’t sound like no good thing to be.