Twillyweed (3 page)

This I'd found utterly charming. Imagine: a man who hardly noticed when my glamorous sister would walk in the room! Perfect. Or so I'd been fool enough to believe.

Because now, after years of being left out of pertinent information, I knew why.

When she was fifteen (and I was eleven—years before I'd even thought of dating), Carmela, with her excellent fake ID and all gussied up to look like a bombshell, latched onto a bevy of flight attendants and snuck into the local cop hangout in Kew Gardens. Who should be sitting at the bar but rookie Johnny Benedetto? From what I understand, he took her to the band shell's parking lot in Forest Park in his convertible. Johnny always had a great car. Over her head and under the influence of three gin and tonics, Carmela surrendered her virginity. She'd been looking for someone to lose her virginity to, she'll tell you. But she was just a girl, a foolish, miscalculating girl, and she got pregnant. That was not part of her plan. To be fair, Johnny didn't know this, what with her going off to Ireland to have the baby. He'd chalked the episode up to a one-night stand and hadn't even seen her again until years later, the night he'd come through the door of my parents' house to court me. Neither of them had batted an eye. And I'd been definitely watching for signs of interest. Every guy I'd ever brought home went gaga for Carmela. And they'd recognized each other, all right. Carmela wouldn't forget the man who'd cost her five months of her junior year at school and put her on a trip to rainy Ireland—a trip where she'd given up her daughter before she'd even seen her. As for him, well, no one would be able to forget Carmela's bewitching face. But in our living room that night the both of them had simultaneously chosen to feign uninterest. Oh, they stayed far apart all right, sidestepping carefully away from each other the entire duration of my marriage. It wasn't until recently he'd found out he had a child, because this secret had been kept even from me. Or, as my family likes to say, they'd carefully protected me from this knowledge.

If I'm honest with myself, me finding out about it certainly had a lot to do with our final breakup, at least from my end. That really put the bow on it.

I stood now on the corner by Holy Child Church. My marriage had fizzled, we know my relationship had fizzled, and if I moved, my cell phone fizzled.

“Claire!” Carmela spoke with harsh, attention-getting spleen. “Listen carefully. I'm outside Rome.”

I looked down at the soggy, elegant pumps I'd “borrowed” from her while she'd be gone and was still wearing and had better be careful of. I wiped their soles on the wrought-iron gate.

“And now,” she went on, “I got a message on my cell that Jenny Rose is in New York.”

“Jenny Rose? Your daughter?”

“Stop saying my ‘daughter!' I don't even know her!”

“Well, now's your chance,” I muttered.

“Claire, those aunties made me swear on the Bible I'd have nothing to do with her when I let them have her.” Carmela lowered her voice. “You know they wouldn't have taken her if I was going to waltz back into her life. I had no choice, for God's sake! Claire. Just listen. She's left the name of a place. I've written it out. Take it down before I lose you. Can't you just go find her? She's on Long Island somewhere. It's some artist colony … used to be a posh resort town on the North Shore. What the hell's the name of the place? Hold on. Here it is. Sea Cliff.”

Sea Cliff. The way Carmela said it, with that Ida Lupino English lisp of hers, it made it sound so alluring. The very name made me think of sailing boats and high winds.

“She says she's working as an au pair. Look”—she sounded a touch frantic now and I pictured a handsome Italian coming within earshot—“she wants me to meet her out there at noon tomorrow, at a place called Once Upon a Moose. I couldn't make out her number for all the dead spots in the call and so I can't call her back. Can you go?”

“Jesus, Carmela, she'll be expecting
you
!”

“Well, I can't very well fly home in time, can I?” she shouted, then reasoned, “Look. She met you the time you went to Ireland for that funeral years ago. Can't you do this one little thing for me so she doesn't sit there looking at the door and no one comes?”

I could see the logic in this. Of course I'd met the girl. She was just a kid. Cute. But also very clearly a handful. I was actually glad Carmela showed some signs of feeling for her daughter, but I could already imagine the look of disappointment that would cross her face when she saw me instead of Carmela.

“You and Enoch could take a ride out,” she suggested, already triumphant.

So I laughed. What else could I do?

Jenny Rose

In the morning, Jenny Rose felt stronger. She'd slept well, despite the stuffy, claustrophobic space. It was new and clean enough, but whoever had designed the basement must have been a stranger to the rest of the house. She showered gingerly in the convenient pink washroom allotted to her and while she stood there dressing, her eyes fell upon the twin jewels. She'd best keep them safe. She did have a little green satin sack in the music box in which she kept a tiny pearl she'd bit into while eating clams in Ephesus. She took the music box out of the underwear drawer, opened it, and wound it. When it didn't stick, it played the haunting “Waltz of the Flowers.” It hurt her just to hear it because the boy who'd broken her heart had given it to her. She should have gotten rid of it. But it was so old-fashioned and expensive looking … And she wasn't ready—yet. She shut it. She placed the blue stones in the sack carefully, pulled the drawstring shut, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she made her way up to the kitchen. Ascending from her fluorescent-lit cave, she was startled by the sunshine in the windows. It was a relief.

“Good morning,” she greeted Patsy Mooney, who jumped guiltily and sprang to her feet. She'd been holding the
Newsday
and doing the Jumble. Nibbling delicately at a slice of cinnamon toast, she set another place for Jenny Rose. She danced around the table, light on her feet, the way some heavy people are. She had dainty hands and feet and unblemished skin, and very little, darting eyes.

“Coffee?” She held up the pot.

“If you don't mind, I'd love a cup of tea. I could make it myself if it's too much trouble.”

“Do I look like it's too much trouble?” she said sharply.

“Oh! My, no. I'm sorry. Yes. I'd love a cup of tea.”

“Oh, all right. I'm sorry, too. Start fresh, all right? I'm not much for the morning.”

“Neither am I,” Jenny Rose said, relieved, although she loved mornings, but she didn't want to start off on the wrong foot.

They sat together and waited for the pot to boil. A collection of white seashells rimmed Patsy Mooney's workspace and her jars of wooden spoons. Jenny Rose studied her with her artist's eye: the woman's arms short and hairless, the skin of a beautiful woman stretched like a balloon over a sly face. Stupid, but sly. A taste for the flashy. This morning she wore a dress of cherries dancing over cotton cream. Her chubby wrist strained under a bauble of red and white poppets and her eyes strayed back to the paper. Jenny Rose realized she'd destroyed the woman's happy solitude and decided from now on to bring a book to the table so as to restore her peace. She knew she'd been staring at her, but kept memorizing her just the way she was so she could draw her later. There was no eye like that of a first glance.

In an odd, falsely cheery voice from left field, Patsy Mooney pried suddenly, “Didn't like things at home, huh?” It was like she'd heard it from someone else and had been saving it up. “Nowhere else to go?”

Jenny Rose didn't see why she always had to be so cross. She extended her spine and settled her most forbidding look on the older woman.

Catching on to this new restraint, Patsy stirred her coffee counterclockwise. “Seems to me”—she spilled a little and sucked a tooth, revising her approach—“most young girls stay close to home …” She let that hang in the air.

“It's true,” Jenny Rose said pleasantly. The woman was just being friendly. “I like to travel, though. Are you from New York, then?”

“That's me. Born and raised in Oceanside.” She paused. “That's the South Shore. You won't see much of that.” She nudged her chin, indicating the rest of the house. “This here is the fancy North Shore. The gold coast, they call it. They think anyone lives on the South Shore ain't worth the time of day.”

Jenny Rose laughed politely and inquired, “When will I see the little boy?”

“Look at that! Almost forgot what I was supposed to tell you! Dear diary, I'm thick as a post! Now. Wendell's adopted. They told you that, right?”

“No,” she answered simply, delighted. Now she liked him even more. But she wasn't about to tell busybody here that her reason for coming to the United States was to find her own birth mother. She smiled pleasantly.

“Right. Well, he is. But that's neither here nor there. He goes to school every day, see. I get him off to the bus and that'll be your job.”

“School? Isn't he just four?”

“Almost five. You wouldn't want him to yourself the whole day, believe me. He's a job. You'll find him sleeping on the floor with the cat. You can tuck him in good as you want but come morning, there he'll be curled up like a dog on a rug at the window and the window wide open. Don't ask me how he gets it open but he does. And not a word out of him! That's seven twenty, now, remember. They pick him up here at the end of the drive. He's a cinch to get up so you won't have to be worrying about that. Opens his eyes and he's up. It's just getting his shoes on that's the problem. Takes a long time. Once you get that done, he'll be ready and waiting, smart as a pin. All dressed and teeth brushed. Not talking. And we know he can. But he won't. Stubborn, he is, that's all. That's what I say. You'll see.”

“What do you mean? He can't talk?”

“Oh, he can, all right. Ungrateful. He just won't.”

“Who's been putting him to bed?”

“He goes by himself.”

At four? Jenny Rose felt a rush of outrage.

“Now, I'll help you out at first—being there's a time difference in your system—but after that, you gotta be up at six thirty to check on him. Here's your tea.” She scowled and plopped a decrepit tea bag into a mug and crashed boiling water over that.

Jenny Rose made a note to buy some loose tea and a pot, if there was none. “Mrs. Mooney, what will I be expected to do today?”

“It's Patsy Mooney, dear. Just Patsy Mooney. No ‘Mrs.' anymore.” She raised her eyes dramatically and crossed herself. “Thank God that's over. Mooney's my maiden name and please God I never have to lay eyes on that man again! You're free as a bird for the morning. At two forty, you gotta be here to meet the bus. Make sure you're not late. The driver won't let him off the bus if no one's there and then there'll be hell to pay.” She glanced to the side. “It's just the kid's never easy.” She shrugged. “He don't want to get on the bus and then he don't want to get off!”

Jenny Rose paled. Seven hours off on his own! A child that age. Of course he was confused.

“Mostly the driver yells at him loud enough and off he comes.”

“I'll make sure to be there,” Jenny Rose promised, her eyes out the window, hungrily taking in the spectacular view. “And when will I meet Mrs. Cupsand?”

Patsy Mooney stood with her cup stopped before her mouth. “Nobody told you that part?”

“Sorry? What do you mean?”

She lowered her voice. “Nobody told you what happened or nothing?”

Jenny Rose regarded her attentively.

Patsy Mooney sat back down. “Annabel Cupsand took off with another man, hon. That's the honest truth of it. There's no other way to put it. Well, that's why you're here!” She winked. “Made off with plenty of the family loot, too, from what I heard.”

“Oh! Really? Gee, I'm sorry.” Jenny Rose stretched to reach for the honey and the green satin sack tumbled out of her side pocket. Guiltily, she slipped it back in.

Patsy Mooney narrowed her eyes. “What's that?”

Jenny Rose reddened. Now was the moment to say something, surely. But some reservation held her back. “Just a little private thing I like to keep close.” She smiled. “My rosary,” she lied.

Patsy Mooney leaned conspiratorially closer. “Keep your private stuff on your person, like I do.” She pulled her collar aside and revealed three silver chains around her neck. A locket, a little key, and a golden heart dangled there. She gave a sly wink.

“Ah!” Jenny Rose smiled. “Faith, hope, and charity.”

“Not really.” She looked over her shoulder and moved her tongue into her cheek. “The heart's from my father, rest his soul, the locket's got my mother's strand of hair, and the little red key's just for the clock. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. So, like I was saying, good riddance to bad rubbish, when it comes to Annabel Cupsand, her and her long, showy red hair! He's better off without her if that's the sort she was.”

“Was?”

She stopped, seeing something far off Jenny Rose couldn't. “It's just sad. You know. For the little boy.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And she wasn't such a bad person. … It's just … she didn't hardly have Wendell here and she goes and takes off …”

There was something about the two of them sitting together that opened some intimacy. Jenny Rose inquired carefully, “What exactly
did
happen with Mrs. Cupsand?”

“Annabel?” Her face softened and she relaxed. “She always had me call her Annabel. The day she left … it was snowing. I remember exactly. It wasn't three weeks ago, and snow covered the cliff. The wind was moaning and carrying on! In the morning, the sun was shining and everywhere clean and white as a marshmallow. And cold! The town was covered and there was icicles everywhere. Cars are sliding off the road. It's so treacherous because Sea Cliff is nothing but these steep hills, see?” She leaned in close. “It was early, before breakfast even. I come down … Mr. Cupsand was standing in the great hall. I thought that was funny, like, because he's not one to use that way. He comes through the kitchen mostly. But there he was holding a pink letter in his hand and I thought, what's that sound?” She leaned in close to Jenny Rose. “Well, dear diary, there's Mr. Cupsand, howling like someone's cutting off his foot! I come running in and it's like he don't even see me. He just stands there crying out loud and his sister, Paige, come running in and she couldn't do nothing with him, neither. Then she picks up the letter out of his hand and—I'll never forget it—she reads it and then she says to me, she says, ‘Patsy, go call Mr. Donovan. Mrs. Cupsand has left us. Tell Mr. Donovan to come here straightaway.'” Patsy gave a knowing nod, relishing her tale, “It was like she was afraid he was gonna shoot himself, see? Oh, it's been bad days, let me tell you. Like someone died. And the little boy, well, he don't seem to get that she's gone. He don't talk no more, neither. Not a word since that day! And he was a regular little chatterbox—had a way with words, he did!” She gave a mighty shiver. “So sad, what people do to people. And after all the trouble she went through to get him, too.”