Twillyweed (19 page)

At the Great White, I slipped the key in the lock. The door swung open. I had the oddest feeling someone had been inside. But that was silly. Probably just the redolence of Noola. I felt around for the light switch but couldn't locate it. I knew there were matches on the lantern. I felt my way to it and struck the match. A small but promising light shone. I'd looked forward to this moment. All my enthusiasm died, though, as I saw what devastation lay before me. But this was the deal I'd made, I told myself sternly, and snapped on the radio. Reception was bad until I found a local station. “This will be Rachmaninoff on a theme of Paganini Opus 43,” the voice announced. It filled the cottage. Wearily, I hung Carmela's suit on the standing lamp, put a dish of water down for the cat, and opened the window all the way despite the chill. There was a decrepit Noah Webster dictionary in two parts on Noola's bed stand, their spines held together with mending tape. Each book was three inches thick. I took up volume one, A–Lithistid, printed in Cleveland in 1937. The pages were yellow and their edges frayed, but so well made they didn't crumble.

I cleared a spot for myself on the couch, spread the tablecloth I'd worn to the party over the cushions, covered myself with a cozy plaid blanket I'd found in the cupboard and opened the book. I turned to
G
.

Gnomon
.
From the Greek. 1. One who knows or examines. 2. The index, or triangle of a sundial that casts the shadow … From gnome: thought, intelligence. So called from the belief that gnomes could give information as to secret treasures in the earth
.

Hmm. A gnome. I supposed that was Wendell. An indicator … I removed my earrings and turned off the yellow light, wondering what sort of shadow this gnomon would cast—and which way it was going to point me.

It was the hour the world is asleep. A meandering glove touched and moved across the underbelly of the cottage in the dark. This glove loved the dark. It caressed the west corner, the nubs and the nicks in the surface.

Ah, this little house had caused so much trouble.
Tch. Tch
. Who would have thought such a plain little place could foil so many plans? It wouldn't take much to send it toppling like firewood into the sea. Or burn? It would go up like kindling! But no. There were other ways. And there was time.

The glove cut and unlooped the decaying jute twine holding the elderly wisteria in place. It drew back appreciatively and it would fall, wounded, onto the dirt and sand with the next jolly wind. A vicious boot kicked the roots up and over the earth. The glove dug an angry chunk off from the crumbling sill but then stopped itself, thinking. It was not the damned house to be got rid of, after all, but the intruder within.

Jenny Rose

She left Mr. Piet's truck in the deserted marina parking lot, placed the key back on the front left tire where she'd found it, and briskly took the cliff steps up to Twillyweed. When he came in from fishing, he'd find it just where he'd left it and never be the wiser. That poor Radiance was in a great lot of trouble right up to her neck. She'd help her, Jenny Rose resolved, jogging swiftly up the cliff. She let herself in, then went up the back stairs to Wendell's door and checked the bed. He wasn't there! She bolted in, frantic. But there he was on the floor, all curled up. The scamp! Still, she'd best not run off and leave him again. She picked him up and put him in his bed. Light little bugger. Feather light, he was. Putting off descending into her cellar, she lay down beside him and watched his dear little face for a minute, lovely in sleep, then got up and tiptoed to the window. She could just make out the outline of the cottage and thought of her auntie Claire all alone in that ramshackle place. She squinted, imagining she saw some movement there along the cliff and under the house. It was a funny feeling she had. No, it was probably a raccoon. Ought she have insisted Claire stay here with her? The Cupsands wouldn't have minded. And if they would have, she'd have told them good!

The sea was close and black and the mist floated over it in eerie scarves. New leaves on the spreading limbs moved in the wind, obscuring her view.
I'm being
paranoid.
She sighed and scrabbled down into her pocket for the satin sack. The stones glittered in the half-light. They were cool to the touch and mysterious, staring at her eerily, but they warmed quickly. She knew she ought to get rid of them but something about them warranted care. She slipped them back into their sack, got up, and leaned against the open window. You could barely make out the Great White, now, hazy in fog.
That's my mother's sister in there
, she thought, smiling. And you never knew what life held in store. She yawned and climbed back into Wendell's bed, half listening to the monotonous slosh of the tide as they cuddled warmly like an unmatched pair of spoons, drifting, lime and lemon, off to sleep.

Claire

When I opened my eyes in the morning, the inside of the cottage was thick with fog. At first I lay there, puzzled, but then remembered I'd left the big window open all night. The weather had changed. I threw off the blanket. I felt strangely good, different. I got up and let the kitten out, then, following her lead, I treated myself to a good stretch. I'd get myself in shape, by gum. I did a little Downward Dog, then staggered across the floor to the window and peered through a wall of mist. There I saw it. The magnificent wisteria, old as the hills, had come down during the night. It lay there, tangled and broken off, a vine once as imposing as Jack's beanstalk. I shuddered, glad, at least, that Noola was no longer alive to see its demise. I shook my head sadly. Then I heard it—the woman with the infant! Without even brushing my teeth, I shrugged into Noola's beaver coat and took off, climbing over the devastated wisteria, finding my way down the steep path to the beach by holding on to the rocks. Down below in the wispy fog I saw her slender retreating figure. Now was my chance to invite her over and I trotted across the sand, the water lapping on my right, her keening song keeping me on course as the fog lifted and then again swallowed her up. Charmed with my own generosity of spirit, visions of company for lunch and a young friend to advise and chat with filled my heart.

“Hi,” I called. “Hello there!” But even in the stillness she didn't hear me. I reached, keeping up, and tapped her on the shoulder and she whirled around. She was a man! Long, straggly, yellowed white hair blew in the wind crisscrossing his whiskery face and pale blue eyes, an old man swirling in the thick mist, one moment there and the other not, and there was no baby, just a wrapped-up broken doll in his arms! The hairs on my neck stood up. I screamed with no sound coming out. Like in a dream, my legs would not move. Then I turned at last and I found myself running, running frantically away.

When at last I clattered to the top of the hill, I saw Mrs. Dellaverna out digging, looking as though she were kneeling on a cloud. I almost ran into her arms but I spotted Jenny Rose in and out of the mist, leading Wendell up the winding path—little refugees from Shangri-La—and I ran to her instead. I don't even know what I was afraid of, but the vacant blue eyes of the man had terrified me. And that terrible fog … I just sobbed on her shoulder, not caring if I frightened Wendell, just losing it completely. Jenny Rose led me into my own place and boiled up some coffee she found on the stove. Wendell held tightly onto Jenny Rose's hand but he didn't look frightened, just curious.

“Sure, you've had a shock,” Jenny Rose said as she spooned sugar into the cup.

“Oh, God,” I cried, crashing my fist on the table, “I hate sugar in my coffee!”

“All right, all right,” Jenny Rose soothed. “Now tell me what happened?”

Mrs. Dellaverna was in the doorway. “You met up with Daniel, I think.”

“Yes, it was a man! He's a man.” I covered my mouth. “An old man. But he had this long platinum hair.” I trickled my hand down my side. “And I only ever saw him from the back. I heard him singing, well, not really singing but humming, like,
keening
and I thought it was a young woman with an infant.” I sniffled, pulling myself together. “You know, I remembered how hard it is with a new baby and I thought, oh, let me invite her up to the cottage. My own son had colic,” I went ranting on, “and I'd walk him, from seven to nine every night.”

Jenny Rose patted my arm. “Sure, you're not used to living by the sea. It does strange things to a body. The fog and all …”

“I think you scared him, eh?” Mrs. Dellaverna said wryly.

“Who's Daniel?” Jenny Rose jumped up and down.

Wendell spoke up, “Daniel, he lives just down the road from Twillyweed. He's got a lovely cottage. But it's run-down now.” Except for the Elmer Fudding of his
L
s and
R
s, Wendell spoke with the vocabulary of an adult and I was shocked to normalcy because he sounded so mature—no doubt what comes from a child spending all his time with women.

Jenny Rose put her hands gently on his shoulders. “Do you know him, then?”

“Oh, sure,” he said easily. “Me and Mama always go. We take him mozzarella and cheese and parsley sausage when we go to Uncle Giuseppe's.” He stuck his thumb into his mouth, clamming up.

Jenny Rose mouthed the word
Annabel
to me. Wendell noticed this and he sunk into his neck.

“
Ach
,” Jenny Rose soothed him, “sure, you'll be wanting to speak of your mum, isn't that it? None of us mind, do we, Auntie Claire?”

“No.” I felt better and now somewhat foolish. I looked down at my cup. “I have no idea how old this coffee is.”

Mrs. Dellaverna reluctantly left to get some fresh milk and I showed Wendell the button safe.

“This will keep him busy for the while,” Jenny Rose declared, setting him up on a throw rug.

Mrs. Dellaverna returned with the milk. She'd also brought a bell jar, sliced bread, and a salt shaker filled with red pepper flakes. “Oh,
Dio
! You have to have spicy.” She nestled it into the condiments grouping. “It's what makes life good! You got to have the zest!”

“And what's in the bell jar,” I asked, “sauce?”

She gave me a hard look. “Gravy.”

Together the three of us cleared off some seats. Mrs. Dellaverna said, “One more, we can play cards.”

I put WFUV on the radio, cleaned the percolator as best I could, giving it a wicked scrub, and set about to make a decent pot of coffee. We watched Wendell arrange the buttons into separate piles.

Jenny Rose said, “He's making a little shop.” We both smiled.

Mrs. Dellaverna popped some slices into the toaster, checking it first for mice.

Jenny Rose said suddenly, “You know, we could rent a little shop in town and sell buttons.”

“Too expensive,” Mrs. Dellaverna protested sourly, drumming her fingers for the toast.

“No,” Jenny Rose pursued excitedly. “There must be
five
little empty shops in town.”

Mrs. Dellaverna laughed. “Don't be
pazza
! You can't make no living selling buttons.”

“No,” Jenny Rose went on enthusiastically, “but vintage button shops are a draw. There's one in Dublin. We could put my pictures on the wall and your photographs and have a sort of gallery. I could make popovers and tea.”

“Mmm.” I shrugged, not really paying attention, for I was still seeing that man, that Daniel, with his haunted face there alone on the beach. “I could make my sauerbraten,” I said.

Mrs. Dellaverna said, “I could make spaghetti!”

“Is that what you really want to do?” Jenny Rose said suddenly.

“No,” I admitted.

“What do you really want to do?”

I closed my eyes and saw myself on a clear day sailing past the lighthouse with Morgan Donovan at the helm. That woke me up. What was I thinking? I shook my head to clear it and saw the mess before me. Slowly, I stood to fetch another cup.

Jenny Rose, her little chin in her fist, said dreamily, “You know, I think I know who you mean, this bloke Daniel. When I drove into town the first time, I saw him behind his dirty windows—it must be the same fellow—and I thought how sad. Long silky white hair, just like you said, almost platinum. I'm not surprised you took him for a lass from behind. Dead skinny. Little bat shoulders. Could be good looking, but he's got those awful, haunted eyes. I still remember seeing him and thinking
this
is America? What's wrong with him, Mrs. Dellaverna?”

Mrs. Dellaverna made a face and shrugged. “He's here a long time. Sometimes, people go visit. They got that Eucharistic minister brings him the host. He's not old, he just looks disheveled. What are you going to do? Put people in the crazy house just because they look and act funny? He wasn't born that way, you know.”

I said, “What's with the doll?”

Mrs. Dellaverna sighed heavily. “It's a long time ago.
Dio mio!
That was a story.”

Wendell put down his turret of buttons and got up and moved close to the table. “He had a baby that drownded,” he mispronounced solemnly and nodded his head to affirm this.

Jenny Rose scratched her neck. I could tell she didn't like where this was going.

Mrs. Dellaverna stroked her mustache and leaned back in her creaking chair. I prayed it would hold her. She said, “No! No, I'll start at the beginning. See, this house here she belonged to Noola. She was a great one to sail. Every year, they have this what you call charity regatta. Her boat was the
For Sail
. Noola was so sure she was going to win. Daniel, he's just a little boy, maybe seven, living here in Sea Cliff. He shouldn't have been in the water. But he was spoiled, always up to no good. The family had plenty of money. What happened was terrible. It was a catastrophe! Noola, she ran over Daniel with the
For Sail
. His head, it came apart. He had to have hundreds of stitches on his head. Hundreds. He's in the hospital for months. His brain was … He was never the same, never came back the right way. He was without oxygen too long. And he don't hear so good, either. Noola, it's not her fault. The kid was out where he shouldn't have been. It was an accident. But she never got over it, see? And Morgan, he was in the boat and he watched the whole thing! Noola never forgave herself.” Here she stopped and, composing herself, took a sip from her cup. “He's sweet. But let's face it”—she tapped her skull meaningfully—“he's
pozzo
. He looks okay. But who's gonna be friends with such a boy? So when he grows up, he meets some junkie girl in the church basement, at one of those meetings. Janet, her name was. You know, one of those can't help getting stoned, then yoga, then getting stoned again, in and out of all those rehab groups over at the church basement. AA. NA. One of them.” She tapped her noggin with her pointer finger. “She was smart, she smelled the money. I never liked her. But that's beside the point. Daniel had property, you know; his parents they left him the little house there on the shore, where he lives now. It didn't look like that then. Let me tell you. So anyway, it was a big shock when she got herself pregnant.
Minchia!
She's into her thirties when she had his baby.
Some
people were not so sure about whether those two could take care of a baby. And let me tell you, they were right. Because one day there she was getting stoned and there's the baby with nobody watching. And this after one time I found a needle on the beach.” She shrugged. “I'm thinking, who's gonna change the diaper? But everybody figures somebody else is there to keep an eye on them.” She paused, not sure if she should go on and then—all of us listening with bated breath—she continued, “There was talk the baby should be taken away. Adopted through the Guardian Angel House. But then nobody wants to interfere, you know? But then something happened that changed everything. I'm outside, hanging up my wash on the line. I just happened to look down. I see the baby alone on the beach and it's getting dark. I'm shocked! I go down. I take him up to my house and I put him to bed. I didn't know Janet made the overdose—how could I know? Make a long a story short, Janet was dead. They found a shoe, a little baby shoe on the beach. And a sock in the water. Oh,
Dio,
it was terrible. Everybody thought the baby went into the water!” She bit the side of her hand. “I didn't know Janet died. How would I know? Even after I took the baby down, and everyone saw that the baby was safe, Daniel, he kept looking for the baby. Always he looked! That was what, twenty years ago? That's why nobody talks to me.” She shrugged, not meeting our eyes, but looking, fretful and hurt, out the window. “So now you know.”