Twillyweed (2 page)

“Everyone paints it,” Radiance informed her in what sounded to Jenny Rose like a French accent, indicating the series of oils and watercolors of this very house one after the other up the grand stairway.

“Well, then,” Jenny Rose said, “there goes that idea.”

Radiance looked over her shoulder and lit a bent, yellowed roach she'd had stashed away behind her ear. She took a deep drag and squinted at Jenny Rose. “So you're an artist?”

Jenny Rose said truthfully, “I'm not sure what I am.”

“Everyone's an artist in Sea Cliff,” Radiance informed her in a bored voice as she blew out a rivulet of smoke. “An artist or a writer or a wannabe.”

“Really? What about you?”

“I'm the princess, can't you tell?”

There was a noise behind them. A small, scurrying noise, like a surprised squirrel in a winter garage, and they both jumped and looked around. That was when she saw the little boy for the first time. He had a mop of fluttery hair atop a large head, giving him the appearance of intelligence, with inquisitive, timid eyes that looked away when he saw you notice his meandering eye. The eye was evident at once. Enormous ears, poor thing. So this was Wendell. Jenny Rose liked him on sight. She knelt down and offered him a peppermint from her crowded pocket. The little boy was about to take it but saw the heavy woman coming back and he hesitated, changed his mind, and stepped back and away from her, clearing his throat in anguish. The heavy lady waved him back up the front stairs with a warning look. But Wendell held something in his closed hand, some offering of welcome, Jenny Rose imagined, so she leaned in his direction without taking a step and tried to make her eyes tell the child it was all right. The boy was sensitive, Jenny Rose could see that, and she remembered her own agonies of childhood, the times they'd paraded her out and wanted her to know what to do, to say … how in the end she'd always seemed to fail.
Well, never
mind
, she told herself, shaking her cropped, spiky, dark hair, hoping, for a moment, that this child would like her even though she knew it wasn't about the liking. She'd have to master him if she expected to stay. Other­wise, they'd send her back. And she couldn't go back.

“What's that?” The stout woman marched across and grabbed hold of what the little boy had clenched in his fist. He went to cover it, but the woman snatched at it gruffly and with all the unthinking insensitivity of the ignorant went on to berate him, “What's that ya got? Is that what they teach over there in that fancy school? I'll show ya! Turning into a thief now, eh?” The woman ranted on, “Not in this house! What did I tell you about that, eh? Give it here!”

Jenny Rose was appalled. To humiliate the child in front of her! But the damage was done. She must assert herself with an interference of some kind if they were to respect her place over this housekeeper's. She stood up very straight and, in a voice she acquired from she knew not where, though she suspected upon hearing it that it came from that exotic taxi driver, she extended her hand and announced, “Give that to me, please.”

They all turned to her in surprise. Before any of them could object, she'd snatched the crumpled silk scarf from the housekeeper's hands and thrust it into her raincoat pocket. “This matter will be dealt with at the appropriate time.”

None of them knew how to take this, but while they made their faces of conspiratorial surprise, Jenny Rose slipped in a wink to the little boy and began the slow walk up the stairs.

She was almost to the top when, “Not that way, miss,” the butler at last advised. “You'll be down the stairs, not up.”

“Oh,” she said and meekly trotted back down. This error had caused her to lose face with them, she realized. But not, she felt sure, with Wendell, who, appraising her with his one good eye, looked at her with interest and concern.

The heavy woman with the broad New York accent took the child away and returned almost immediately, sprawling one hand down over her hefty belly and pinning her lank hair back with the other. “I'm Patsy Mooney. And this here's Radiance. Now you've met there's no reason you shouldn't call each other by your first names,” she said, insinuatingly demoting Jenny Rose to cleaning lady status. But Jenny Rose did not move, and the hefty woman urged her on with a bossy but conciliatory, “Let's get going, Miss Rose.”

“It's Jenny Rose Cashin,” she said clearly as she was led into a huge kitchen with an indigo Aga and a wall of shelves displaying glistening white plates. Lead-paned windows were heavy with rain-drenched ivy and a charming grandmother clock ticked loudly and cheerfully from the corner. A collection of antique white and blue porcelain milk pitchers lined the mantel. It felt like an English country kitchen of long ago. At the plank table the child returned to his seat and nibbled black bread and green salad and cherry pie. Jenny Rose's mouth began to water. “It's all so British,” was all she could think to say.

“Boss likes everything foreign,” Patsy Mooney told her. “Makes him feel important.” She sniffed. Then, realizing she'd said too much, she nicked her head toward the entrance hall and added in a joking way, “But you can't always locate a nice British girl right away.” She'd meant Radiance, who was from Guadeloupe, but Jenny Rose, misunderstanding her belittling tone, took it to mean that she herself was after all just another Irish immigrant. It dredged up all the trouble she'd left behind, all the gossip and rude remarks of thoughtless villagers. Her eyes filled with tears and she dropped her head so no one should see. But the sharp-eyed Patsy Mooney softened and tactfully turned away, saying, “You gotta be tired, coming all that way. Want me to show you your room?”

“I am tired,” she admitted.

“Okay, just leave the big trunk. Mr. Piet'll bring it along when he's had his lunch. And I'll bring you a tray.” She hoisted Jenny Rose's flight bag onto her shoulder. “Watch out you don't trip on that cat. That's Sam—he leaves a nasty smell if he takes a liking to you—right through that door there. That's it. And it's a devil to get that smell off. I don't know why they won't have him fixed. Keeps off the rodents, Mr. Cupsand says …” But instead of heading for the back stairs as Jenny Rose had expected, they wriggled through a doorway. “When you live near the water, there's always rats,” she informed Jenny Rose with pleasure. “Down these back stairs and you'll see your own room at the bottom. There. Ain't it pretty? He just had it recarpeted. When I came here, it was so slippery. Nothing but the best for the boss. And feel how soft and plushy with your feet!” To demonstrate, Patsy Mooney slipped off her battered clogs and wriggled chubby toes into the pile.

Jenny Rose's heart sank. All the grand views from every window and she was to be stuck away in the basement? She looked around. It was all faux-finish pinkish cream, like being in a ladies' room or a funeral parlor. How would she ever put an easel up on this carpet? Even with a drop cloth. They'd kill her if she spilled a bit of paint. And she always did.

Patsy Mooney went trilling on, “Catch the TV! Mr. Cupsand got himself a flat screen and put his big one in Mr. Piet's. When I want to see my shows on a big screen, I've got to skedaddle down to Mr. Piet's quarters and ask myself in. It's supposed to be for all the help but you know the way it goes; you get to think it's yours when it's in your digs.” She touched the ugly television longingly.

I'd have preferred any small window
,
Jenny Rose thought but didn't say. She sank onto the bed. Gone was any thrill of anticipation.

“'Course I got my own tiny TV, a little feller up on my dresser, but”—she made a face—“reception's no good. … Fuzzy! And just look at the bed, they give the latest installment.” Patsy Mooney could barely keep bitterness from her voice now as she plumped the firm mattress with a deft mitt. “It's one of them pillow tops. You got the luck.” She stood still, her bosom heaving with the strain of yearning and the steps. “Say! You're not disappointed, are you?”

“Oh, surely not. Really! I expected nothing,” Jenny Rose fibbed.

Patsy tipped her head suspiciously. “But?”

“No ‘but.' Honestly. I just … well … sort of would have loved to have had a window.”

“You'll be glad not to have one when the storms rage, I'll tell you!”

Jenny Rose smiled tiredly. “I love a storm.”

“Safe and snug you'll be down here. No one'll get you here.”

“Get me?”

The woman peered into the gaping suitcase then looked at her doubtfully. “That all you got? Paints and brushes and stuff?”

Jenny Rose hoisted the other bag up onto the bed and snapped it open. “See? Plenty of duds.”

Patsy Mooney's grabby eyes lit up. “Hmm, what's that nice old glittery thing you got there?” Jenny Rose recoiled. “My music box.” She stashed it away in the top drawer.

The woman stood there for an indignant moment then took the hint. She wet her lips. “Well. I'll leave you then.” She shut the door.

Jenny Rose sank down onto the bed and wearily took it all in. She pulled the white wicker pail toward the bed and laid everything out beside herself, emptying her flight bag and her pockets of boarding pass, gum wrappers, and magazines. The apricot print silk she'd taken from Wendell toppled open like young cups of May leaves. And what was this? A folded paper the size of a tea bag. She kipped it open and onto the coverlet spilled two rocks of blue candy. Goodness, they glowed! They moved like gemstones. She picked them up. But these weren't candy; they were glass. She peered closer. She was certainly no expert, but these looked like something precious. And they were matching. They looked for moment like bright blue eyes. She looked at them—and they looked at her.

Outside her door she heard a sound. Someone was there. A chill went up her spine. She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Mooney?” she called. But there was no reply.
Maybe just the cat
, she told herself. She looked back at the stones. They were so changing and pearly. “Moonstone,” she whispered aloud. That's what they were. Milky blues and greens that moved as she beheld them, watery with color and light and set into almond-shaped and antique, intricate works of silver.

There was something radiant about these stones. Had Patsy Mooney been right? How on earth had Wendell got his hands on them?
And what do I do now
, she pondered,
turn the poor kid in?

The rain outside came down with delicious force, like blue linguini, keeping him safe and hidden in the cluttered room. Who would come here now? Languidly, on hands and knees, he found his way through the blankets to Noola's personal things. But there wasn't much to interest him. Just artifacts. He thought of the statue and wondered blankly what had become of the eyes? He simply could not remember. But that was not his fault. There'd been so much going on … His gaze fell upon Noola's books. She'd had so many books! He picked up the tattered
Webster's Universal Dictionary
and thumbed carelessly through it. He should look something up. What? Something relevant to this place.
Murder
? No, not today. Ah, yes. Something enchanting.
Masturbation
? Why not? And here it was in black and white. So how vile could it be? Production of the venereal orgasm by friction of the genitals; self-abuse, onanism. Hm. What was that? One-ism? How true. He looked carefully at the words, fondly, almost, because there was beauty in truth, wasn't there? And he could afford to be sentimental now. It seemed he'd passed that greenish pubescent phase. Now that he'd at last found his way to satisfaction with a mate.

He decided to look up his new best friend,
torture
. It was French. How fitting, he mused. “LL tortura, a twisting, torquere, to twist. 1. Extreme pain; anguish of body or mind; pang; agony; torment.” Yes, he agreed, stretching over the bedclothes, how well defined. He read on, aloud, now, savoring the sound of the words. He stopped. Where was that little cat? That was the thing. Once they knew you would hurt them, they were so hard to catch. He returned to his page.

“2. Severe pain inflicted judicially, either as a punishment for a crime, or for the purpose of extorting a confession from an accused person.” Ha! Even they said it was judicious.

“3. The act, operation or process of inflicting excruciating physical or mental pain.” He groaned with pleasure. Perhaps, he relented, tossing the heavy book aside, a little self-abasement, once or twice again … in this sentimental hollow, just for old times' sake … ?

Claire

In Queens, I answered my cell phone. No doubt it would be Enoch. He'd chase me down now. But it wasn't him after all; it was my sister Carmela. “Claire,” she said, “you've got to help me.”

“I can't help anyone right now, I'm afraid.” I performed what I hoped was a tearful snort to emphasize the seriousness of my distress. “It's Enoch. You won't believe what happened.”

“Is he dead?” she said.

“No,” I said.

Because she grunted with what sounded like disappointment, I hesitated and she made use of the moment. “Claire. Please listen.”

She'd said
please
, which was a word she never used, and because she was not impressed by my anxiety, I let her go first. But she always went first. I call it the sense of entitlement the firstborn utilize constantly, but it's more than that. It's a mechanism of timing they have, the selfish ones. There is no courtesy moment ingrained in them. They just plunge on because feeling has nothing to do with it—unless it's their own. You find my attitude cold? Wait. Let me explain.

Back when I'd first started going out with my husband, Johnny, the detective, part of the attraction I'd had for him was that he never really looked at Carmela. His way to put it was a disinterested shrug. Then he'd say, “Too many years doing vice to get caught up with a girl like that.”