Under the Same Blue Sky (9 page)

“Yes,” he said finally, “I can feel them. Like you said—good paint. Well, I’ll be going now.” When he finally released my hand, I staggered, dizzy from sun and strain. He walked backward away from me and jumped into the Model T, red bandanna flicking like a tail. He hadn’t coughed, I thought vaguely, and he never jumped before. No, he always
climbed
laboriously into the car. My head reeled, as if I’d fallen into a dream: my night visitor, the gliding ease of paint, the tremor, and Henry’s strange behavior. Soon a crushing weariness overtook me. I buttered a slice of bread, went to bed, and tumbled into black and dreamless sleep.

Henry came the next morning just as I was leaving for school. “Hazel, how’d you do it?” He might have been speaking a foreign
language. I waited, as my father waited for Hungarian, Polish, Russian, or Italian customers to describe their needs by gestures.

“How did I do what?”

“How did you fix my shoulder? Look at this.” He reached up, windmilled both arms, and shook them like rags. “And I hardly coughed last night. “How’d you do it?”

“I didn’t
do
anything, Henry. I just showed you the paint.” The slapping and shaking went on. “Crazy Ben” never behaved like this. I backed away. “I have to get to school.”

“Not yet. I want to know. If you didn’t
do
anything, Hazel, who did? There was just me and you here, and the house.” He pointed at the blue box, placidly facing us.

“Henry, it’s a coincidence.”

He snorted. “I’ve sure as blazes felt
paint
before. Next you’ll say it was Crazy Ben or special paint. Did
you
feel anything?”

“Well, sort of a tremor, but—”

Triumphant. “You see? A tremor! Listen, I’ve had a bum shoulder for years. Ask anyone in Galway. Now look!” He shot his arm up and down with manic speed. I jumped back.

“I see, Henry, but I don’t know why.”

“I feel better; that’s what
I
know. And I’m not coughing, either. Some folks have power. You could have told me. Because you seem so—ordinary.” He looked me up and down, measuring my ordinariness. Then he snapped his fingers. “Of course!
That’s
why you wanted a blue house! Nobody in Galway has a blue house.” He shook with excitement. “But you wanted one. That was the first sign, you see?”

“I just like blue, that’s all.”

“Think what you will.
I
know a sign when I see one.”

I wanted to vanish like Ben into the woods. Sweat ran down my
face. “I
don’t
have any special powers, believe me. I’m as ordinary as—anybody else.”

“Now listen, Hazel, we don’t want folks thinking we’re nuts or getting scary about John Foster coming back. Let’s just keep this our secret.”

“Of course.” Whatever happened was unexplainable and surely unrepeatable. Why would I possibly speak of this? What would possess a schoolteacher, new in a small town, to publicly claim healing powers? More than “nuts,” I’d be branded as a charlatan or a witch.

“Got a trick knee, you know,” Henry added. I backed away, but not fast enough. He lunged, caught my hand, and pressed it hard against his knee. This time there was no tremor, just hot embarrassment and a flash of fear to be tightly held so close to a man. “Wait, I forgot. You need to be touching the house. That’s how
it
works.”

“There’s no
it
! And please, I’m late for school.” Henry ignored this. I was pulled to my house and made to touch the siding with one hand and his knee with the other. Never in my life had I felt so ridiculous, trapped, and uncomfortable. No tremor, just a wash of sweat. “Too bad,” he said finally, “but you
did
fix the shoulder. Admit it.”

“I can’t. I didn’t do anything!” If Henry had claimed my skin was blue or I’d just vaulted up a tree, the space between his words and what I knew as truth couldn’t be more impassable. He cranked his arm up and down as if saluting and then ran a finger across his lips. “Remember, not a soul.”

Finally, he let me go. Despite his assurances, Henry might tell a soul or several souls, I realized with horror. Or others would notice a change in his bearing or ask about the wild cranking of his arm. I walked faster and faster to the schoolhouse. The children were already in their seats. Did they see the same ordinary Hazel? Was my hand now writing on
the blackboard the same hand as last week? Why shouldn’t it be? Had I turned as crazy as Ben?

“Is there something wrong, Miss Renner?” Alice asked at recess. “You seem different.”

My breath caught. “No, I’m just a little tired. You go outside. It’s a lovely morning.” I used recess time to grade papers and managed to shove away thoughts of Henry, the paint, and my visitor, like clothes stuffed into a dresser drawer.

After school, walking home, I flipped frantically through explanations of these days. Perhaps Henry had moved in some way that relieved pain, unblocked a muscle, or shifted a joint. He could be a hypochondriac, as his wife was known to be, in which case both his previous pain and his present cure were wildly exaggerated. Perhaps he was simply crazy, but he’d never seemed crazy before. My mother claimed I had a healing touch, but what fond mother has never claimed astounding skills for a beloved child?

What then? There is a reason for all things. This is the age of science. I’d laughed with friends at cheap gazettes blaring “proof” of ghosts or quacks selling snake oil. Vaudeville acts tricked the credulous with levitating and vanishing bodies, but even Harry Houdini said the basis of magic was trickery. All who claimed supernatural powers were by definition charlatans.

Could the paint itself have power? Houdini would laugh at this. What about the fact of Ben’s painting the house? But he scratched as before and probably heard voices as before. Using the blue paint hadn’t cured him. Henry said I had the touch, but in twenty years, what magical thing had I ever done, despite my mother’s claims? Could she, I wildly wondered, have secretly enlisted Henry to—
Stop!
Stop!
These were crazy thoughts. Some logical explanation would soon emerge. I must be patient. And practical. For instance, leveraging Henry’s
gratitude to get more school supplies. I should ask quickly, for in all likelihood, his pain would return. Of course, I wouldn’t write home of this matter. Why excite my mother’s superstitions or make my father doubt my sanity? I’d keep this mystery to myself.

Afternoon sun darkened my house to the sheen of a mountain lake. Running my hands over the slick siding, I felt no tremor. But what if, a curling thought whispered, I
was
pierced by the extraordinary? Couldn’t God, for His purposes, do that? Had I been brought to Galway for some purpose? No! Remember that Henry was probably a hypochondriac. John Foster was a man with Ben’s gift for watching and listening unseen. He’d somehow heard that I wanted blue paint. A “good boy” whose mind was twisted by disappointed love had conjured an absurd expiation for murder: delivering paint. The only rational response to these days was to forget them. Forget them and be glad my house was finally blue. By a force of will, I spent the evening planning lessons. Except, I thought before bed, Henry always coughed before and he didn’t cough now. On the other hand, every ill has a beginning and therefore an end. My house had merely turned blue when his cough had run its course. Yes, that must be so.

The next day, walking into town, I passed Horace and Charlie on their new bicycles. Charlie swerved and fell, howling and holding his wrist. I ran to help, but when I touched him, he jerked away. “That hurts! I need Doc Bentley.”

“Can you take him?” I asked Horace, who was miserably standing by.

“Sure. Come on, Charlie, the doc will fix you up.” I watched them go. Poor Charlie, but still I was relieved. Henry’s “healing” was just a fluke, nothing more.

CHAPTER 6

The Healing Hand

I
didn’t see Henry for more than a week. His pains must have returned. Probably he had been embarrassed by his own credulity. I was sorry for his sake, but relieved to go back to my ordinary life, without mysteries or extraordinary powers. The beauty of autumn sufficed. In mid-October, leaves blazed red and gold against skies as blue as my house. If the Impressionists came to Galway now, they’d have to mix new palettes for their work.

On a warm evening, I was on my porch grading papers when Henry brought Agnes to my house. His wife was a pale, doughy woman plagued, or apparently plagued, with ailments. Each one required new patent medicines. Even Jim Burnett avoided her at church, fearing entrapment by her litany of complaints.

“Agnes wants to see how well Ben’s painting came out,” Henry said, winking. I didn’t move. He winked again, lifting an arm to scratch his head.

“You’re welcome to look around. These have to be done for tomorrow.” I indicated my stack of papers.

“Can you show us where the knots were?” Behind him, Agnes
whimpered a little. Despite myself, I pitied his life at home. Would it cost me so much to humor her?

“Henry, you’re off your rocker,” Agnes huffed as I led them to the siding.

“You can’t see the knots, can you, dear? Hazel, show her, please.” Behind his wife’s bulk, he gestured at me to take her hand. When I didn’t move, he put my hand in her moist and bloated one, pushing both firmly to the siding as Agnes huffed: “Off your rockers, both of you.”

Mortified, I closed my eyes, waiting for this charade to end when just as before—or slightly weaker than before—a tremor flew up my arm. “Takes a while,” Henry was saying far away. Agnes ceased huffing. We stood, frozen, until her hot hand slipped from mine. I said nothing of the tremor. Perhaps I imagined it in the heat and discomfort of the moment. But no, here was the following ache again and Henry’s distant voice: “How’s the heartburn, dear?”

She burrowed a hand under heavy breasts. Brown eyes widened in fleshy nests.

“My father has heartburn sometimes,” I said desperately. “From pickles.” They ignored me, fixed on the pressing hand.

“It’s gone!” she said. “Sure as eggs, gone away.”

“Perhaps Hazel will make us some coffee,” Henry prompted.

“Yes, dear, I’d love some. What a treat. I haven’t had a cup in years.” Trapped, I ground and brewed coffee as the two sat at my table, exchanging knowing glances like parents sharing secrets from a child. “I didn’t believe at first, but Henry’s right.”

“My wife thinks that you and the paint are touched.”

Cups rattled on my tray. “Touched?”

“By angels,” Agnes whispered.

“John Foster brought the paint. Are you saying—?”

“Hazel,” said Henry firmly, “like I told Agnes, a murderer doesn’t
make miracles. He knew you wanted paint because you talked about it enough, all the time. He probably still has friends here. He thought bringing paint would make everything right. Who knows what he was thinking? He’s probably half cracked after that night. It’s
not
the paint! If it was, Crazy Ben would be fixed. I saw him today, still scratching like an old dog. No, it’s something about
you
.”

“We know that you’re Lutheran,” Agnes added. “But the Good Lord can choose strange vessels. Because if it is not His work, then it’s Satan’s, and why would
he
be helping folks?”

I pushed my coffee away. I wanted this talk to stop and my head to stop pounding. I wanted my old gray house again. “It could still be a coincidence.”

“Coincidence? There’s no coincidence! My husband’s shoulder pained him for years. And my heartburn’s gone! You have the touch, that’s clear.” Agnes smoothed a flowered skirt across broad thighs. “Remember, this is our secret. To protect your privacy, of course.” They wanted the “touch” for themselves; that much I understood.

“And don’t mention John Foster again,” Henry warned. “You’ll just get folks riled. One more thing: I’m getting you a globe like you wanted. Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Now I truly was a charlatan, paid for trickery, even inadvertent. And yet . . . Agnes
could
drink coffee. Henry
did
move easily and hadn’t coughed in all this time.

After they left, I went outside to touch the paint, pry off a chip and smell it. Ordinary. Completely ordinary. I’d sworn I wasn’t “scary.” Living in the murdered newlyweds’ house hadn’t troubled me, but now I shivered. Could the ordinary daughter of an ordinary hardware store owner be a “strange vessel”? No, Agnes was a hypochondriac, easily sickened and thus easily relieved. Both she and Henry were fascinated by a lurid, small-town crime and craved the extraordinary in their lives.

Yet suppose I
was
a “strange vessel”? Impossible, yes, but the impossible had happened before to ordinary people in ordinary places. If Agnes and Henry
weren’t
hypochondriacs, but actually healed, or at least helped, then perhaps I could help the more deserving: Alice, Susanna, and Ben with his torments and ceaseless itch, or the pains of local farmers. Could I help my father’s agonizing visions of death? Could I even heal the piteous wounds of war, the bayonet stabs, bodies shredded by shells and bullets, and minds torn by ceaseless horror? No, that was ridiculous. Was I thinking of presenting myself at a field hospital with a blue house in tow, convincing real doctors that I could do what they could not? Was my own mind slipping away like the moist, soft hand of Agnes?

What would a logical, sane person do? Test the “touch,” of course. For my sake, it would be best to avoid someone who would call me crazy or ridicule my pride and credulity. I needed someone who might accept the substance of things unseen. I waited for Ben. He came that evening near sunset with a bouquet of cattails and autumn grasses. I’d determined to say nothing of Agnes and Henry’s claims but simply repeat what I’d done: the holding hands and touching wood. If Henry, Agnes, and I were only impressionable fools, then no harm would come to Ben. Or he might be helped.

I put the grasses in a Mason jar and said casually: “Ben, you did an amazing job with the paint. Nobody can see or even feel where the knotholes were. Come to the side of the house.” I took him to the point where Henry stood and reached for the hand I’d never touched before. It was callused, scabbed, and scarred with scratches. He resisted. “No, Ben,” I said gently, “you have to feel it.” I pressed his hand against the blue and—yes! A searing tremor shot through my arm, then a heavy ache, as if bone had turned to lead. I staggered.