Wabanaki Blues (24 page)

Part III

Twenty

Silent Fall

It's the first week of October, two weeks since Cricket's arrest. I should be playing a concert in Boston this weekend. But my band blew up with a bang before our first concert date. Mom and I are both curled up on the stained navy futon she has cherished since college. She is bathing her sorrows in a steaming cup of Jamaican coffee, courtesy of Celine. The vapor rises and whirls upward, into two long steamy legs. She hops to her feet, reaching for that steam like it's an old friend come to visit. But the vapor quickly vanishes, and she curls into a ball again.

We all see our “ghosts” in different ways. Mine breeze by with a feathery touch, stop by to jam the blues, emerge from the blue smoke of a dream, or appear as another teenager wearing a band tee shirt. I don't know how to tell Mom that neither of us will be seeing her old friend, Mia, anymore, not in any form, solid or steamy. Cricket's capture has allowed Mia's spirit to fade into a field of yellow grass that lies somewhere between Manburn Street and forever. I thought Mom would be happier after Del and I caught Mia's killer and got Will off the hook. But she has a new excuse for her depression: Dad told her that he wants a divorce. I have trouble sympathizing as I've lost both men who matter to me, having sent the mother of one to prison, and having refused to tell the other how I feel about him. At least I have plenty of material for blues songs. Plus, Mom and I are not alone in our despair; everyone in New England is depressed right now. A true catastrophe has hit our region. Our autumn leaves have failed to produce their usual radiant color.

I sit slumped beside Mom on the futon, watching a Sunday morning news feature on this problem called “Silent Fall.” The television blares gothic organ music, making Mom curl up tighter and me slump lower. The camera captures an aerial view of the banks of the Connecticut River, awash with dull beige leaves. The image looks more like a historic sepia photo than a live October foliage shot. A reporter stands in front of the Connecticut Science Center, dabbing her hollow eyes. The camera pans back and forth, from the building's winding façade—designed to echo the form of the river—to the unnaturally bland landscape along its banks.

The camera lens closes in on the reporter's tense face. She speaks somberly. “I stand beside the Connecticut River, a waterway that runs the length of New England, with its source in the four lakes of Indian Stream, New Hampshire.”

I stop nibbling my peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich. I've never heard anyone in Hartford mention Indian Stream before.

The commentator's mascara streams down her cheeks like war paint. “Today, this is our river of sorrow, as the leaves along its banks remain colorless. Dendrologists are baffled as to why New England boasts no colorful leaves this fall. Innkeepers, restaurateurs, and shop owners are devastated by the lack of autumn tourist reservations.”

Celine raises the volume of a perky reggae song to drown out the television. She bogles around the room as if there's some reason to celebrate. It's times like these that remind me why I love the blues.

She stops in front of the television, wagging a finger back and forth. “Sistas, men are like a splash of hot sauce. They flava things up, but you can easily do without them. It's time to stop wallowing. Put on your Jam Doung colors. We're going to Jamaica.” She resumes dancing to an upbeat island two-step.

Mom pretends not to hear her. Celine turns off the television. “Lila, your husband is gone. Maybe he'll come back. Maybe he won't. What's the difference? You never loved him. Now you can find true love. It's never too late.”

Mom raises her hands in surrender. “Fine, I'll go to Jamaica.”

Celine turns to me, reading my face like it's an astrological chart. “You must come too, Guitar Girl.”

I squint, warily. “I'll pass on the island fun. Enjoy yourselves.”

I know Celine is only including me in their vacation because she's worried I'll head to my cabin up north to wallow over Del's upcoming nuptials, or more pathetic, that I'll make some last-ditch effort to stop his wedding.

Her rum-ball eyes peer into my soul. “We both know Delaney Pyne is engaged to be married to another woman. Be careful not to set yourself up for a disastrous fall.”

“Don't worry,” I assure her. “No hot sauce or moldy bologna for me.”

As soon as I hear them leave, I hop in my pickup and speed north on I-91, following the dreary Connecticut River foliage all the way to my cabin in Indian Stream.

Somehow, I hoped Indian Stream was far enough removed from Hartford to have avoided our tree trouble. I imagined that the oak, sugar maple, and white birch of the Great North Woods would glow with at least a hint of fall color. But none of these trees radiate their former light. Even the conifers have browned. I'm greeted by a beige woodland and a peace-less hush. It's not the curious silence I heard when I came here a few months ago, or even the respectful quiet I sensed after Grumps died. This is a rigid, aching stillness, like a red-cheeked kid slapped by a drunken parent and told to shut up. This silence trembles.

Listless leaves droop off the high oaks like dirty tears. There isn't a gold or crimson rebel in the bunch. Fallen pine needles heap in scorched stacks beside faded bundles of bittersweet, ivy, and bracken ferns. A mourning warbler stumbles through these crestfallen woods like a refugee wondering where her true home has gone.

Grumps' cabin appears cold and unresponsive, like a stillborn child. All that's left of the fall maple leaves painted on his door is a peeling crimson smear. Only an artist of Bilki's caliber could repaint that.

A scruffy crow hops around on the mismatched blue hood of my truck. I'm grateful to see a moving creature even if it doesn't bother to caw. A bald eagle breaks the eerie silence with a screech as it lands on my cabin roof, preferring it to the needle-less pines. Bilki speaks inside my head, “Eagles stand for high ideals.” I examine the eagle charm on my bracelet, its silver eyes stern and unwavering.

I wonder: Does this eagle screech serve as a blessing to reward me for putting Mia's killer behind bars? Or, is it scolding me because her son is getting married in two weeks, and I appear to be stalking him?”

The predator's wide wings expand and break the dead air with a thwomp, pushing hard toward the sun, till it fades into October's bright blue sky, its high ideals vanished.

I find the cabin shockingly sunlit inside. I realize it's because all the window-covering vines lay in sickly heaps on the ground. Sunlight streams onto the Skittles-colored glassware on the kitchen shelves, creating a welcome rainbow in the midst of this cursed and colorless land. I can't believe how clean the place is. Someone has dusted and mopped the floor. A loaf of whole grain bread, a bunch of ripe bananas, a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a plastic bottle of local honey, shaped like a bear, sit on the countertop. A perfect pile of chopped hardwood rests beside the stove. These logs weren't here when I left the place and neither was the food. The woods may be uninviting but the inside of this cabin feels homey, a little too homey.

A thud out back draws my attention to the kitchen window. I peer out, presuming it's Del, the person I know is responsible for maintaining and stocking everything. But through the window, I see it's Marilynn makng the noise by knocking her backside against a dead and hollow tree. She's trying to bash a beehive off a low limb. There's another larger bear, behind her, with gray flabby haunches, a cracked bulbous nose, rows of loose, sloppy flesh that droop beneath his eyes and yellowed claws. This is the same bear I saw at Del's house the day of his band practice, the same bear from the mural in my room. I guess I didn't imagine The Great Bear, after all. But I blink, and he's gone. Did I really see him, this time, either?

A spiky-haired head pops up from behind Marilynn. It's Del! He must have been leaning down, probably smashing bananas, feeding the bears. I scan the nearby trees and spot a Harley sticking out from behind a weary maple. It has green flames on it. Finally I get to see the famous vehicle from Cricket's story! This is more than a bike. Its story has been told so many times it's become a Pegasus or Thunderbird to me, a magical beast that could soar from the earth to the stars above.

“Welcome home, Mona Lisa,” Del says.

Marilynn's copper penny eyes flash. She bares her teeth at me, before disappearing into the sparsely clothed trees.

I lean out the window. “Del, I can't believe you cleaned and stocked my cabin. How did you know I'd be coming here today?”

He leans on my windowsill. “Aunt Celine texted me that you were on your way.”

“She is a psychic, after all.” I quip, before reminding myself not to flirt with a guy who is about to be married. “You didn't have to do all this work on the cabin.”

“I wanted to do it. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you.”

There's no good response to this—unless I want to set myself up for heartbreak. But I won't push him away again, like I did the night of the Farewell Dance, and after we forced a confession out of Cricket.

I realize it's early October and ask, “Why aren't you at school?”

“I'm still doing an Independent Study on the woods.”

I would like the sound of this if I didn't think he'd planned it so he could be up here for his wedding. I feel my thoughts slipping downhill.

Bilki whispers, “Good deeds merit thanks.”

Hearing her voice lifts my spirits, and I heed her words. “How about a cup of coffee? It's the least I can do to thank you for all the work you've done.”

Del follows me inside. I brew fresh coffee grounds in Grumps' old kettle, while he puts another log in the woodstove. Smoking wood and smoky coffee create a blissful smell I'd almost forgotten. Grumps knew how to make coffee and damn it if mine doesn't smell as good. Still, I stiffly await Del's reaction to my first-ever homemade pot of coffee.

He sips and grins. “Delicious. This tastes exactly like the stuff your grandfather used to make.”

“Thanks,” I say, wondering if Scales brews decent coffee. I glance out the window and recoil at the sight of so many beige leaves. “What's up with the foliage, Del?”

“I don't know. The forestry school has been inundated with people demanding answers. Up here things are usually past full color by now. This leaf problem is the only thing anybody at the general store is talking about.”

It occurs to me that he is incorrect, that a good portion of this dinky town is probably talking about his upcoming wedding on Halloween. But I force myself to stay on target. “Did Grumps ever tell you any old Indian stories about why the autumn leaves change color?”

“There was one about a hunter and a bear. But I'm fuzzy on the details.” Del heaves a sigh before continuing, like he hates to say what he's about to. “Your great aunt definitely knows it. You could ask her.”

“Black Racer Woman?” I croak. “I have no idea where she lives or how to get in touch with her. I'm not even sure I want to, after what she did to your leg. Besides, we're not exactly close. The fact is, I never even knew I had a great aunt until the Winnipesaukee Powwow.”

He spills coffee on the floor. “Ha! I remember that powwow. I wanted to stick around to talk to you, privately, to straighten things out between us, but Scales needed a ride back to school and you were busy yapping with Captain America.”

Captain America.
So that's how he sees Beetle. I want to say that, at least, Captain America is a good guy while Scales is a sour cheating lemon who visited Black Racer Woman's booth to purchase a love charm to lure him away from me. But I don't say that because the jealousy raging through me is the same dark emotion that was responsible for ending his mother's life.

I allow myself one probing question. “Del, why did Scales need to rush off on the day of the powwow?”

He counts on his fingers, as though he is trying to remember the details of that day. His face falls flat. “Mona Lisa, I honestly don't remember why she was in such a hurry.”

I know what happened: he was hexed. I've seen enough weirdness in the world to know that a thing like this can really happen. But there's no point in telling him that.

“Too bad you didn't stick around. You missed the verbal fireworks between Grumps and my great aunt. He called her a wicked witch.”

He shrugs. “That is how she's generally perceived. Your grandfather had argued with her since forever. I don't know the particulars, other than they heavily disagree on some tribal obligation related to bears.” He makes that furry teepee shape with his eyebrows; only he does it more fiercely than I've seen before. “Take it from me: obligation is a bitch. I can't believe I'm supposed to get married in a few weeks.” He eyes me greedily, as if I'm a fading Polaroid picture that's about to vanish.

I try a straight question. “Where is your bride?”

His eyes fall on my lips in an expression that could be interpreted as regret. “She's performing in a musical on Cape Cod.”

“Seriously? We both know the Cape shuts down after Labor Day. They must have finished their run weeks ago. Where is she, right now?”

“Shopping for wedding stuff in Boston, I guess. I haven't heard from her much. I'm afraid she knows how I feel about you.”

My heart flutters at his words. “It's ridiculous for Scales to be jealous of me. You and I were only working together to clear your father's name.”

“Really? Is that all we were doing?” Del picks up Rosalita and plays the chorus to our song, “Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you lie…” His eyes glue shut. I know he is remembering our amazing kiss. If he won't speak plainly, I will.

“Damn it Del. You're getting married. You don't talk to your bride, and you told me you loved me.”

Those words quaver but I'm proud of myself for getting them out. His eyes turn woodsy green, as though he wants to fade into the forest with the bears. “The trouble is, I hate broken promises, Mona Lisa. I made a promise to Scales, like my dad promised my mom he'd pick her up on the last day of school.” His words crack. “Dad failed Mom. He didn't trust her and he believed a lie. She died because of it. If he'd looked for her and kept his promise, she'd still be alive. So I'm going to keep my promise. Everybody has a code they live by. Mine is keeping promises.”