The Seven Whistlers (5 page)

The blood scared her more than the pain.

Seventy seven year old Aaron Chomsky caught his slipper on
the metal lip that separated the linoleum of his kitchen floor from the bare
wood of his basement stairs. For an old man, he was pretty spry, and he reached
out to grab the door knob.

It came off in his hand, and he fell.

At the Red Oak Inn, the refrigerator had died during
overnight, spoiling all of the food that Jenny would have made for guests at
dinner that evening.

When Alan arrived at his antique shop, Cat O’ Nine Tails,
the heat was running and there was an oddly metallic, moldy smell coming from
the vents. When he went downstairs, he found that boiler had given out, and
water had soaked through the bottoms of dozens of cardboard boxes, perhaps
damaging many of the items he had in storage.

Sheer bad luck. The boiler had been two days past its
warranty.

Upstairs, he kept the door open to let the smell out. A
strange whistling noise filled the street and he went out onto the sidewalk,
searching for its source. A few seconds later, it stopped, and he shrugged and
turned to go back inside.

On the street corner there stood the biggest black dog he
had ever seen. It stared at him. Though it did not growl or bare its teeth or
even take a step nearer, Alan felt waves of menace coming off of the dog.

He closed the door, and went about opening windows instead.

Rose woke with a gasp, as though she’d stopped breathing in
her sleep and only panic had brought her awake. Eyes open wide, she drew
several long breaths and her heartbeat slowed almost to normal. Her head felt
stuffed full of cotton, almost as though she was hung over, but she hadn’t been
drunk last night.

An image flashed across her mind like the fragment of a dark
dream — the silver stag, so breathtakingly beautiful, completely ethereal
— dragged down by massive, slavering black hounds. She squeezed her eyes
together as though that might make the image go away, and was surprised when
she was at least partially successful. Still, it lingered just below the
surface of her thoughts like the echo of a nightmare.

A knock came on the door. Recognition sparked in her, and
she felt sure that this was not the first knock, that the sound had been what
had actually roused her. Certainly it was not that she was ready to wake up. She
still felt exhausted, dull-witted, and heavy, but she forced herself up out of
bed.

In boxers and tank top, she padded across the floor of the
cabin.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Rose. Open the door.”

Grandmother. As always, so impatient and imperious she would
not even identify herself. Like Rose should have been able to see through the
damned door and prepared a banquet for her arrival, with trumpeters and a red
carpet strewn with flowers.

Be kind. Her husband’s just died.

So why did Rose feel that Pappy’s death hurt her far more
than it did her grandfather? Hard-nosed as she was, the woman had loved him. Rose
was sure of that. Pappy was the only one her grandmother had ever seemed to
love, and even then the emotion had never shown in her face or in physical
affection, only in the way she had listened when he spoke, and kept close to
him wherever they went.

For his sake, be kind,
Rose thought.

With a sigh, her heart a tight fist of grief over her
grandfather’s passing, she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The old woman had tired eyes, pinched at the corners with
what might have been sorrow. Her jaw was rigid as ever, chin high. She wore a
black skirt and a cream colored blouse beneath a black sweater, and looked more
than a little like a nun. The grieving widow. These were mourning clothes. Her
grandmother had always been a stickler for traditions.

“Good morning, Grandmother,” she said, stepping aside. “I
guess I overslept. Can I make you a cup of tea?”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” the old woman said,
brushing past Rose as she entered the cabin. “I’ve just been making funeral
arrangements for your grandfather and thought you’d like to know what I’ve
planned.”

Rose shut the door. Her grandmother strode across the living
room and into the quaint, country kitchen. She sat in one of the two chairs at
the small, round, rustic table and clasped her hands in front of her. Rose went
past her, filled the tea kettle, and switched on the burner.

The old woman would never ask for anything, but she’d want
the tea — would be insulted if Rose didn’t serve her something.

“It’s thoughtful of you to come,” Rose said.

Her grandmother sniffed as though it had been an insult.

Rose reached up into the cabinet for a pair of teacups and
reluctantly fetched saucers as well. Tradition, after all. Her hands shook a
little and a little twist of nausea hit her. She really did feel hung over. Her
face felt slack and she looked at her funhouse-mirror reflection in the tea
kettle — she was pale, dark crescents beneath her eyes.

“I spoke to your mother this morning,” her grandmother said.
“She and your father will be coming home for the funeral, of course. But it
will be several days before they return, and I can’t wait for them to have the
wake. Even so, I think it’s hideous when people have days of a wake, two
sessions a day, like it’s a Broadway play and they need a matinee.”

Her upper lip curled back with repugnance.

Rose took teabags out of the cabinet and dropped one in each
cup. She turned to face her grandmother. “People have hectic lives. Providing
different times for them to pay their last respects means makes it easier for
them.”

“Why should it be easy for them?” the old woman asked,
genuinely mystified. “My husband . . . your grandfather is dead, Rose. If the
timing of his passing isn’t convenient for people, to hell with them.”

Her voice had gone a bit shrill on the word
dead
. Rare
proof of her love for the man.

“We’ll have one wake. Friday night. And on Saturday morning,
we’ll have a funeral mass. Father Cahill is young. I wish Father Hughes still
ruled the roost at St. Margaret’s, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Still,
I’ve told our young priest that I won’t stand for any short cuts. It’s a full
funeral mass, not some benediction and then a burial. If we don’t do the entire
mass, we might as well bury him in the yard next to the piss-happy dog your
mother doted on as a girl.”

Rose felt her mouth hanging open, but couldn’t force herself
to close it. Her grandmother had always been an opinionated woman, but she’d
never been so crass. Quiet and stern, quick with a judgment, yes. But this
brutal frankness was a surprise, even from her.

“Oh, close your mouth, Rose. You’ll catch flies.”

She did as she was told.

“You look like hell, by the way,” the woman said, sitting so
primly in her cane chair, haloed by the morning sunshine coming through the
kitchen window.

“Oh, thank you,” Rose replied, giving a supermodel turn as
though to show off the latest fashion. “It’s a new look I’ve been cultivating. Glad
you noticed.”

Then she faltered, dizziness weakening her, and had to catch
herself on the edge of the counter.

“Rose?” her grandmother said, her tone more accusation than
concern. “Are you all right?”

With a scowl of disgust, she clenched her teeth and turned
her back on the old woman. To keep from saying something she’d regret, she
busied herself with the tea, though the kettle had not yet whistled. She made
her grandmother’s just as she liked it, with a single dollop of milk, and then
carried cups and saucers to the table. Still silent, she went back for spoons.

Her grandmother was dipping her tea bag as though fishing
for something, but her eyes were locked on Rose.

“What is it?” she asked, and if Rose had been the type to
fool herself, she might just have been able to imagine she heard actual concern
in her grandmother’s voice.

Instead, Rose laughed softly, darkly.

“You know, I’m sorry if I show my emotions more than you do.
I know you probably think it’s obscene or something, but I hurt, inside. I’m
screaming, inside. All my life, Pappy was the only one I ever thought really
saw
me
when he looked at me, instead of what he wanted me to be. He
talked to me about what was in my heart, not what he thought should be there. Now
you’re going to tell him that he was your husband, and no one can miss him more
than you do, no one can grieve as much as you. And maybe you’re right. But I
can’t hold it inside like you! I think about never hearing his voice again, and
I just can’t —”

Her voice broke. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She shook
her head in frustration and turned away, wiping her eyes. All she wished for at
that moment was someone who truly loved and understood her to be there and just
hold her while she cried out the pain in her heart, but the only one who’d ever
really fit that description was the one she was crying for. Her grandmother
would not embrace her. Rose would never have expected it.

A chill went through her and she shivered.

“I know you loved him,” her grandmother said. “And he loved
you.”

Rose shook her head again, at a loss. “But you don’t
understand why I look like hell?”

The old woman picked up her tea cup in her right hand, and
the saucer in her left. Daintily, she sipped her tea, just as she’d been taught
by her mother when she was a tiny girl.

Lucy, finally roused from her doggy slumber, ambled out of
the bedroom and into the kitchen. She made several circles and then plopped
down on the floor.

With a sigh, Rose slumped in her chair. The sight of Lucy
had brought back the terror she’d felt last night, and her revulsion at the
sight of those hounds tearing into the stag. Another twist of nausea hit her,
and she took a sip of tea to try to settle it down. She rubbed her eyes and
took a deep breath, trying to cleanse the memory.

“Is something else troubling you?” her grandmother asked,
taking another sip of tea.

Rose glanced away a moment, then met her gaze. “Bad as
yesterday was, last night only made it worse. I had a little scare outside. More
than a little, really. I’ve never been so scared.”

Her grandmother knitted her brows. “What do you mean,
scare?”

“Lucy went a little crazy during the night, barking like a
nut. She ran out into the back yard and in the woods I saw this deer. A stag. The
most beautiful animal I’ve ever seen. It was huge, twelve points at least, but
in the moonlight it looked almost silver. It took my breath away.”

Rose cringed at the memory, which rose again as she spoke of
it.

“It was standing there, and then it bolted. I don’t know if
it heard them coming, or smelled them, but it started to take off the way
animals do when there’s fire coming, or something meaner than them on the hunt.
Two black dogs came out of the trees, so dark they could have walked right up
to me and I wouldn’t have seen them until the last second. They were huge,
bigger than any dog I’ve ever even heard of, and wild. The dogs attacked the
stag, dragged it down, and just tore it apart right there.”

The tea cup tumbled from her grandmother’s fingers. Tea
splashed as it struck the edge of the table, breaking off the china handle. Then
it hit the ground and shattered into gleaming shards in a spattered puddle of
tea.

“The Whistlers,” her grandmother rasped, her gaze distant,
the china saucer still held firmly in her left hand.

“What? Grandmother, what? Are you okay?”

The old woman blinked and looked down at the mess she’d
made. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry, Rose. Your mother loves this china set.”

Rose got up and fetched the dustpan and brush from under the
sink and set about sweeping up the shards.

“Don’t worry about it, grandmother. What about you? Are you
all right? You looked like you’d just kind of gone away for a minute there. I
thought you were having a stroke or something.”

Regaining her composure as Rose got a dish cloth to wipe up
the spilled tea, the old woman waved such concerns away.

“I’m fine. It’s a stressful time, that’s all. And what a
horrible nightmare for you to have.”

Rose blinked and stared at her. “It wasn’t a nightmare. I
saw it happen, right outside. Lucy was with me.”

“You must be confused, dear,” the old woman said. “Grief and
exhaustion will do that. It must have been a dream. Just a nightmare, Rose.”

Pretty vivid for a nightmare
, she thought. But she
said nothing, just finished cleaning up the mess. There was no point ever in
arguing with her grandmother. Time to change the subject.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Rose asked.

“Perfectly.”

“What was that you said before? When you were zoning, you
said something. Whistlers?”

“I don’t know what you mean, dear,” her grandmother said. “Now,
about the funeral. I’d like you to do a reading at the mass. I’ve got it all
picked out. And if you don’t have anything appropriate to wear to the wake and
the funeral, please tell me, and I’ll take you shopping to pick something out.”

Rose stared at her. “I have that black dress I wore to your
anniversary party a few years ago. I’m sure it still fits.”

“Good. Good.” Her grandmother stood, smiled thinly, and
started for the door. “I’m off, then. I have to bring a suit to the funeral
home for them to dress your grandfather. He’d want the red tie, I think. Something
dashing.”

“That’ll be nice,” Rose said, though she was barely aware
she was speaking. The conversation had been surreal. She drifted across the
cabin and stood by the door, seeing her grandmother out.

The old woman climbed into her car, waved once, and drove
away.

Rose didn’t remember her grandmother ever calling her
“dear,” before. Now she’d done it twice in as many minutes. Yet there was
nothing intimate about it. She’d seemed distracted, almost nervous.