EPUB 9781772995091
MOBI 9781772995107
WEB 9781772995114
Amazon Print 9781772995121
Copyrights 2nd Ed. 2018, 2012 by Joan Hall Hovey
Cover Art Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
It’s like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It’s like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It’s like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed
You’re dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.
—Anonymous; Nursery Rhyme
He stood near the ancient gnarled apple tree that for years now had produced only sour, wizened apples, waiting for her. The hot thick air hummed with the chirping of crickets. Behind him, an occasional fat June bug bumped against the screen door, drawn by the night-light. Now and then a car passed by, seeming only to emphasize his sense of aloneness. Not much traffic on Elder Avenue since they built the thruway.
Three houses down, Nealey’s old black lab set to barking excitedly at something — a raccoon scavenging in a garbage can, most likely, but it could just as well be shadows. The mutt had a game leg and was as deaf as his mother’s turquoise plastic crucifix that hung on the wall above the TV. The old man oughta have him done away with, put the damn thing out of its misery. Maybe I’ll do it for him one of these days, he thought, a grin playing at one corner of his cruel mouth. As he retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, he heard Nealey’s door open, heard the old man’s low, gravelly voice call the dog inside.
He gazed up at the starry sky, grin fading as he envisioned Marie and that hotshot kid in the fruity white blazer slow dancing under these very stars. Bodies molded together, the kid’s hands moving over her, groping… his breath hot in her ear…
With a muttered curse, he shook his head as if to banish the image, checked an impulse to crush the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Instead, he struck a match against the tree, but his hand was unsteady and it took a few tries before he managed to get it lit. Leaning his back against the tree he closed his eyes. The rough bark of the tree stabbed like jagged stone through his thin nylon jacket. He sucked smoke into his lungs, exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.
He wasn’t usually a heavy smoker, but four hours later, when he finally heard the car drive up, a small mound of butts had accumulated beside him on the ground.
With slow deliberation, he mashed this latest one out too, and rose to his feet. Although stiff from sitting, at the same time a power born of rage surged through his veins like electricity.
Music drifted through the open car window—a soppy Manilou ballad about a girl named Mandy. Above the music, her laugh floated to him, high and lilting as wind chimes. Mocking him. The flirtatious note in her laugh made his throat tighten, his hands curl into fists at his sides. But it was the maddeningly long silence that followed, while the music went on playing, that made him want to fly at them, yank them both out of the car and beat that scummy kid with her until he had to crawl home through his own blood. He wanted to do it. He saw himself doing it.
It took all his will to remain where he was.
At last she got out of the car. He could see the pale flare of her skirt through the leaves.
“Night, Ricky. I had a really nice time.”
“Yeah, me too. Okay if I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“You wanna go to a movie? Christine’s playing at the Capital.”
“Sounds great.”
The car door closed with a solid thunk. The kid’s old man was a dentist; the car was a graduation present.
As Marie turned away and started up the path toward him, the kid gunned the motor and drove off, taillights glowing like twin rockets, swiftly disappearing into the night.
Now the only sounds were the crickets and the soft click of her shoes on the cement walk. Yet she looked to be almost floating toward him, her white, strapless dress blue in the moonlight.
When she left the house tonight, her black glossy hair had been swept up into a satiny swirl, a few wispy curls trailing down past her ears; now it was messed up. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he moved deeper into the shadows.
Her pearl drop earrings swayed lightly above her bare shoulders as she walked. He knew how smooth those shoulders would feel beneath his hands because he’d touched them before. He had touched her. Had tasted the warm, throbbing hollow of her traitorous throat, crushed her mouth beneath his own, sometimes to silence her crying.
Even now, he could taste her salty tears on his tongue.
As she drew nearer to where he stood in the clot of darkness, she touched her fingertips to her mouth, a small secret smile on her lips like the goddamn Mona Lisa. Face all soft and dreamy—all of it for someone else—never for him.
He waited until she was directly parallel to him, then stepped out of the shadows. He enjoyed hearing her gasp of shock, in seeing her hand leap to her breast in fright, the smile vanish as she stumbled on the walkway, nearly falling.
“Damn you! You scared me half to death. What’s wrong with you? Why are you always sneaking around? Always watching me. Can’t I have one normal…”
His hand clamped hard and sudden over her mouth, cutting off her words. It made him feel good to see those lovely eyes widen with shock, then fear. Fear that turned swiftly to terror, then to pleading. But it was too late for that. Too late. The beast had risen up in him.
“It’s midnight, Cinderella,” he whispered.
It was past noon and Rachael had to admit to herself that she was lost. She’d either missed the road leading down to Jenny’s Cove, or hadn’t come to it yet.
Her shoulders ached with tension and she was sweating in the heavy bulky sweater. Chilly when she left this morning, the day now hung around her like a steam bath. The eight-year-old Cavalier, among its other problems, had no air-conditioning. Resentment stabbed her as she pictured Greg’s red Mustang in the drive. No, that’s Greg’s car; I’ve rather have heatstroke. Raking damp hair from the nape of her neck, tugging at the prickly wool sweater glued to her skin, it seemed she just might.
She considered stopping somewhere and changing into a cotton blouse, but everything was packed up, either in the bags on the back seat, or in boxes in the trunk. Anyway, Jenny’s Cove had to be somewhere around here, didn’t it? It couldn’t just have disappeared into thin air.
“Happy birthday, Rachael. Maybe you’ll spend your forty-fifth year trying to find out where the hell you are.” The irony was not lost on her.
She massaged tired, burning eyes with the heel of her hand. Didn’t get much sleep last night. She’d lain awake listening for Greg’s car in the drive. Habit. The green numbers on the clock glowed 3:12 a.m. when she finally heard it. He came upstairs, walked past their door and went into Jeff’s old room where he’d been sleeping for the past three weeks. Except there was a difference now—now that she knew. A defiant guilt maybe.
A silo sprang up in her rearview mirror and she eased up on the gas. Further on, she passed an old farmhouse with a scattering of outbuildings. Brown and white Guernsey cows languished in a field, some stood still as statues beneath a spreading elm tree, trying to find relief from the heat.
A small boy in overalls and a striped tee shirt waved to her as she drove past, the thumb of his free hand propped in his mouth. She thought of stopping to warn him of inherent dangers, but a semi bellowed impatiently behind her, then roared passed, a blast of wind buffeting her car.
Glancing in her rearview mirror, she was relieved to see a woman with a baby in her arms, hurrying down the driveway toward the little boy.
Rachael refocused her attention on the vaguely familiar landscape, sure that once this had been all farmland — fields stretching like patchwork quilts. Barns and silos. Now it wasn’t so different from the suburbia she had left behind, with its streets winding up through fashionable developments.
As she drove on, her thoughts drifted back to Greg, the needle slipping easily into the raw groove of her soul, to the very moment when life as she’d known it, stopped. And that was the reason she was on this road, trying to find a house she hadn’t seen—made no effort to see—since she was sixteen years old.
Three weeks ago, Tuesday, he’d called to say that he’d be working late again. Dinner was on the table; she’d cooked all his favorites. Swallowing her hurt, she snuffed the candles, cleared the food away. No use complaining. It only made him angry and defensive. She told herself she needed to be more understanding. Greg was under a lot of pressure with the new job. He wasn’t used to being tied to a desk. He liked being on the road.
She would surprise him, take him out to dinner-someplace dimly lit, soft music playing in the background. It had been awhile since they’d enjoyed a romantic evening together. Been a while since there’d been anything between them but the arguments and the silences.
Filled with new resolve, wearing her slate blue dress and matching shoes, she dabbed Chanel No. 5 behind her ears and drove downtown to Greg’s office building.
She had the car door open, had stepped one blue-shoed foot onto the sunny pavement when she saw them coming out of the building. She’d never set eyes on Administrative Assistant, Lisa Richard, (part of the package that came with Greg’s new title of Sales Manager,) but she knew it was her. Rachael took in the model slim figure in the cream-colored suit, the honey-blonde hair that swayed seductively as the two descended the stone steps together. Greg’s hand was possessively at her waist, Lisa smiling up at him.
Rachael didn’t realize that she too was smiling, until she felt it set like a fool’s mask on her face. Feeling suddenly old and ridiculous in the matching dress and shoes, she retreated inside the car and sped off, panicked that they would see her shame at catching them.
Only a few nights before, she’d summoned the courage to ask him if there was someone else. He denied it, told her she was crazy, that she needed to see a shrink. Then he slammed out of the house, an excuse, she knew now, to run to Lisa.
A horn blared, jarring Rachael back to the present. A yellow jeep filled with teenagers, hair flying in the wind, roared past.
Keep your mind on your driving, Rachael.
Up ahead, a store with a gas pump out front, and a Coca-Cola sign above the door lured her with the promise of a cold drink and a washroom. She flipped on her left signal light, waited as a truckload of precariously swaying logs rumbled past, then pulled off the road into the small parking lot, gravel crunching under her wheels.
After a visit to the washroom, she entered the store. The bell above the door tinkled airily, evoking a memory of penny candy and black licorice. Inside, it was cool and smelled faintly of apples.
The tall woman behind the counter made a final swipe at the display case, then set the rag aside. With her Germanic features, iron-grey hair cut in a blunt style, ending just below her ears, she reminded Rachael of some aging movie star, Garbo, perhaps. Or Deitrich.
Classical music floated from the small radio on the counter. “May I help you?”
“I hope so.” Rachael’s own effort at a smile made her feel as if her facial muscles had atrophied. But it was a relief to stretch her limbs, to luxuriate in the pleasant coolness of the shop. “I seem to be lost. I’ve been trying to find Bay Road without much success. It leads—or at least it used to lead—down to Jenny’s Cove. I visited there as a girl. It—it all looks so different now.”
The woman nodded in silent agreement. “Did you come through St. Clair?”
“Yes.”
“Gracious old town, isn’t it? Settled by Loyalists in the late 1700’s, you know. Now, of course, it’s a popular tourist spot. Seems every year a new craft shop or art gallery opens up. Pretty in summer, with all the boats dotting the bay.”
“Yes,” Rachael said, not really up to discussion about the merits of tourism in St. Clair, or lack thereof.
“Plenty of budding photographers about. The older Gothic style homes with their widow’s walks are a great subject of interest. Many a wife would stand on those widow walks hoping to catch a glimpse of her husband’s ship on the horizon. Of course you know all this if you visited here as a girl. Can I offer you a cold drink?” she asked, coming out from behind the counter, her skirt shifting about her ankles as she moved. “You look a bit pale, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. It is humid, to be sure.” Getting a lime-colored fruit drink from the cooler, she unscrewed the top, dropped in a draw, and handed it to Rachael. “Have you been on the road long?”
“A while,” she replied noncommittally. “How much do I owe…?”
She raised her hand in protest. “My treat.” The firmness in her warm, deep voice left no room for argument. “Not much business now. It’s nice to have someone drop in, even if it is just to ask directions.”
As Rachael gratefully sipped the cold, tangy drink, the woman turned her gaze to the storefront window. “It has indeed changed,” she said wistfully. When she turned back to Rachael there was a knowing sympathetic smile on her lips. “People and places do have a way of doing that, don’t they?”
On the surface, an innocent enough remark, Rachael supposed, the sort of thing people said. But it unnerved her, just the same. As did those intense blue eyes that seemed to see into her very soul. Something of the Gypsy about her. Something ageless.
“But back to those directions. Bay Road is right where it always was, you passed it about a quarter of a mile back. The Reverend Willie Long’s house used to be on that corner, but both he and it are long gone now. Replaced by a welding shop. I don’t mean Willie was replaced by a welding shop,” she chuckled. “Only the house.”
Just then a Siamese cat slinked around a partly open door of a back room, blinked sleepily at Rachael out of eyes as blue as its mistresses’. Then it sat on its haunches, looking remarkably like a sculpture of itself and studied her.
“What a beautiful cat,” Rachael said. She’d always had an affinity with animals, but made no move to pet this one, who was presently regarding her with haughty eyes.
“That’s Cleopatra. Cleo for short. Doesn’t keep her humble, though.” She smiled indulgently at Cleo, then turned her attention on Rachael. “You know,” she frowned, “you remind me of someone. I can’t think who. You did say you lived here as a girl?” As the last word trailed off, Rachael saw a shadow of fear cross the woman’s features, her smile waver.
“Is something wrong?” Rachael asked.
“No. It’s— nothing.”
She’s lying. She looks as if she just saw a ghost. Except that it’s me she’s looking at. “Only visited,” Rachael said in answer to her question, suddenly anxious to be on her way, beyond the scrutiny of those piercing blue eyes. But the woman had been kind; she owed her courtesy. “I spent a few summers at Jenny’s Cove with my grandmother,” she offered. “It was a long time ago.” Another lifetime, she thought. “Not so surprising that it would look different. I don’t know what I expected.” Her laugh sounded hollow in her own ears.
Placing the empty bottle in the crate on the scrubbed-wood floor, Rachael started for the door.
In a move that seemed almost supernatural, the storekeeper was suddenly in front of her, holding the door for her. The scent of wild roses cut through the apple smell.
Rachael moved past the woman, down the steps. “I do remember now seeing that welding shop on the corner,” she said over her shoulder. “Thank you again.”
“I knew some of the people around here back then,” the woman said after her. Rachael had no choice but to turn around. The storekeeper looked as if she was trying to work out some complex problem in her mind, but the fear still lingered in her eyes. “I’m Iris Brandt, by the way.”
Rachael knew she was expected to respond with her own name. When she didn’t, the woman added in an ominous tone, “Most of the summer people are gone now.”
Backtracking to the welding shop, a squat structure with dark green corrugated siding, Rachael turned onto Bay Road.
Just past the welding shop was a tarpaper shack with a couple of junk cars and a blue half-ton in the yard. The mailbox was nailed to a post at the end of the drive, the name N. Prichard printed on the side in red childlike letters.
The dusty, white Cavalier bumped along the narrow tree-lined road, groaning with the need of new shocks, forcing Rachael to slow down.
Fall was still more than a week away, but already the leaves were turning color. As a child, she used to imagine tiny elves skipping down this road with pots of paint, brushing the leaves with scarlets and golds. She’d even made up a poem about it. Not much she didn’t pay poetic tribute to back then.
The road was narrower than she remembered, trees hemming her in, forming a lacy canopy overhead, moving her in and out of shadow. The salty mist of the ocean wafted through the open window.
Gradually, the trees on her right thinned, revealing shimmering patches of blue, stirring old memories, buried emotions.
She passed a summerhouse, remembered the children—a boy and girl—who lived there one summer. Towheads both, they would wave to her as she flew past the house on her bicycle. Now the windows were boarded over, the porch leaning drunkenly, overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. She passed a few more cabins and cottages along the stretch of road, a couple recalled, most not.
At last the bay burst into full view. The rocky shore sprawled past, broken here and there by smooth sandy beaches. Overwhelmed with conflicting emotions, Rachael pulled off to the side of the road, switched off the engine and got out of the car.
She walked to the grassy bank and gazed out at mossy islands rising out of the bay like the backs of grey whales. On the farthest island, the pulsing light from the lighthouse guided the safe passage of sailors as it had done for more than a hundred years.
Enduring. Steadfast. Unlike her marriage. Her life. She fought back a fresh welling of tears, angry with herself. Surprised there were any tears left.
Once, she’d been downtown and looked up to see a man staring at her and realized the tears were streaming down her face. She couldn’t seem to stop them. Another time, she actually started running as if she might outrun the pain. Well, enough of that. Enough.
She turned away and went back to the car.
She was about to open the door when suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. As if someone were watching her. She looked around.
But she saw no one.
The house appeared before her so suddenly that she gaped, the sight of it as startling as turning a corner and coming face to face with someone you’d believed long dead. As if on some level she had not expected it to be there at all, its existence only in her memory, and in some faded, yellowing snapshots.
But there it was—tall windows overlooking the bay, small open front porch where she had so often sat reading, or scribbling in her notebook.
As the road had seemed narrower, so the house appeared smaller, the way places often do when you revisit them years later. Once white shingles were weathered now, but nothing a coat of paint wouldn’t fix. If it had been in A-1 shape, she wouldn’t have gotten it at the price she had.
Rachael parked in the drive. As she made her way up the sloping path to the house, the salty breeze from the bay brushed her face like the hand of an old friend. Gazing wistfully up at the eaves of the house, she smiled to herself, wondering if that old gutter still held any of the rubber balls she’d lost to it over the years. But surely there’d been other children who’d played her solitary game since then. “…Claimsies, clapsies, rollies, crossies…recited softly, almost hearing the phantom ball thump against the house.
A house she had bought sight unseen, deciding the instant she saw it up for sale in the paper. She knew a lot could happen to a house in over a quarter of a century, but she also knew that somehow it would be all right. The house had called out to her. Or perhaps she had called out to it.
She’d telephoned Greg at his office. Give me a quarter of what our place is worth’, she’d said, and I’ll sign it over to you. To his credit, he tried not to show his eagerness in complying, but Greg knew a deal when he heard one. He brought her a certified check that same afternoon, and the appropriate papers to sign. She was surprised he’d been able to have them drawn up so quickly.
“You’re in no mental state to make major decisions like this,” her friend, Betty had said, when they had lunch at the mall a few days later. “That’s why insurance people like to negotiate right after a house fire. You can be sure if Allan threw me over for some tramp, I’d take the son-of-bitch for all he was worth.”
Of course, Allan would never betray Betty. He adored her. Rachael had a bitter, jealous moment, followed by shame. Betty was her friend. She deserved her happiness.
Fitting one of the two keys the real estate woman had given her into the lock, she turned it. The door creaked open, and Rachael stepped over the threshold into another lifetime.
The shadowy living room smelled dank and musty. Yellowing newspapers hung over the two long windows facing the bay, held by bits of crumbling masking tape. The one nearest her was askew, letting in a shaft of sunlight that revealed dust motes in the air.
She stood very still, listening. For what, Rachael? No one is here. No one is coming to greet you.
Even the room’s dim light couldn’t disguise the battered furniture, the worn tweed carpeting, the tired brown couch flush against one wall. Rachael flicked on the wall light-switch, bathing the room in light.
In the far corner, a fifties floor lamp stood beside a sagging stuffed chair, its torn, fringed shade tilted at a jaunty angle, like a drunk’s hat. Out of habit, she crossed the room and straightened it. She remembered a similar lamp from her childhood.
The brick fireplace took up most of one wall. Above it, on the mantle, a pickle bottle held a faded plastic rose. She ran her fingertips over the mantle’s gritty surface. Once, it had been lined with photographs—Rachael in short hair with bangs, a tooth missing from her shy grin. Next to that, a black and white photo of her father in a baseball cap, hefting a bat too heavy for the thin boy he had been. She touched her fingertips to the spot where her parents’ wedding picture had been.
Right here. Right in the middle. How young they were. Her mother’s face soft and sweet, framed with dark hair, styled in a pageboy. Her father smiling, barely resembling the gray, somber man she remembered.
As Rachael climbed the stairs to the upstairs rooms, a strange sensation came over her—a sense that she was not real, not quite flesh and blood, but merely a ghost returned to haunt old stomping grounds. A haunted creature herself, belonging to neither past nor present.
The oak railing felt smooth and warm beneath her hand. She gripped it hard, until her hand tingled hotly, giving her evidence of her own substance, her own existence.
Her old room was situated across from her grandmother’s. A small cozy room. An iron-framed bed much like the one she had slept in, stood against the wall, beneath the sloped ceiling. Through the small window above the bed she could see the woods and a slice of bay.
She remembered lying in her bed, palms pressed flat against the ceiling, fancying that she was holding it up, like Hercules holding up the Heavens. A wonder she hadn’t felt claustrophobic with the ceiling crowding in on her like that, but she hadn’t. Rather, she’d felt safe and snug under the patchwork quilt, like a small animal curled up in its den, the battery-operated radio playing beside her. How often she had fallen asleep listening to the old radio program Music in the Night.
She still loved the songs from that time: Patti Page’s Old Cape Cod, Tony Bennett’s Rags to Riches. Ella Fitzgerald, Sinatra. Greg had no interest in things past, including music. Or a wife, she thought wryly.
Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, Rachael took off her shoes and lay down on the bare mattress. A nubby blue blanket lay folded at the foot of the bed; ignoring its musty smell, she drew it up over her, curled into a fetal position, and was soon asleep.
For the first time since the teenager was rushed into St. Clair Hospital, the victim of a brutal assault, her swollen eyelids twitched, as if she were trying to wake up. The nurse taking her pulse felt her own heartbeat quicken in response. She watched for other signs that her young patient just might make it through this horror. The wrist she held in her hand felt cool and fragile as a sparrow’s wing. “Miss Myers? Heather?”
The only answer was in the steady beeping of the monitor beside the bed. “Heather? Can you hear my voice?”
The girl moaned faintly, her eyes fluttering open, at least as far as was possible, swollen near shut as they were. She peered up at her through mere slits in a face so horribly battered it made Nurse Janet Lewis wince inwardly just to look at her.
As the girl struggled to speak, blood beaded on her lower lip. The nurse gently blotted the wound with a cotton swap from the tray on the night table. She’s trying to tell me something.
She tracked Heather Myer’s gaze to the aqua plastic carafe beside the tray. “Of course. You’re thirsty.”
Pouring water into the glass, she then cupped the back of her patient’s head, raised it just enough to allow her to take a few sips through the L-shaped straw.
When she had taken sufficient liquid, the nurse asked, “Do you know where you are, Heather?” The girl tried to answer, but nothing came out. Seeing the panic in her eyes, she said quickly, “Don’t worry. Your voice will return. I’m sure it’s a temporary condition brought on by shock. You’re going to be fine, Heather. It’s just going to take a little time.”
Gently, she lowered the girl’s head back down on her pillow, smoothed the blanket around her, then hurried for the doctor.
Iris fished a cigarette from the pack of Benson & Hedges she kept under the counter. Holding it unlit between her long fingers, she looked out the storefront window. In the elongated shadow cast by the Coca-Cola sign, a crow hopped and pecked at something on the ground. Probably a potato chip or a Taco, dropped by some child.
As if sensing her watching it, the bird fixed its beady eye on her. A chill passed through Iris. A crow at the window means death. Not that she really believed any of those old superstitions.
Barely conscious of the jazzy tune bouncing from her radio, Iris’ thoughts returned to yesterday’s lone customer. (Unless you counted a $3.00 purchase of gas from a teenage boy driving a wheezing Chevy.) She’d seen the woman somewhere before. But where? Though that wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t seem to get her out of her mind, or even the main reason. What had so unsettled Iris Brandt was the danger she’d sensed around her—a cold, malevolent energy. The energy wasn’t coming from her, though—it accompanied her, like the demon dog from hell.
What was wrong with her today? Dogs …crows…
But it was not exactly an unfamiliar happening. Iris had gotten feelings about things and people since childhood. Not that she considered herself clairvoyant or psychic, or whatever was the in-term these days. The very notion of ‘second sight’, as her mother used to call it, was distasteful to her, right up there with snake charming. She was a simple woman, of German peasant stock, who ran a store during the tourist season, and dabbled in pottery making whenever time allowed. A practical, no-nonsense person.
Still, she had learned to pay attention to the bad feelings, essentially because there was no way you could ignore them. Sometimes they were so intense they didn’t let her sleep or eat. And when she did sleep, she would dream—terrible dreams that followed her into waking. And the feelings would stay with her, boring deeper and deeper inside her skull and her skin, until the awful thing happened.
Just like that time when—no, she wouldn’t let herself dwell on that. Though she did often think of Ethel, wondered how she was getting on in Florida. Was George still alive? He’d seemed so feeble that last time she saw him. Not so surprising considering what that boy did to him.
“We interrupt this program to bring you this news bulletin.”
Iris turned the volume up on the radio.
“We have just received a report that seventeen year old Heather Myers of St. Clair, was brutally assaulted in Steve’s convenience store where she was employed part-time. Myers was discovered unconscious in the back room by owner and operator, Steve Poulis, who, following a frantic phone call from the girl’s mother, drove back to the store to investigate. The condition of the teenager is listed as serious. Unable to speak, she is unable to describe her attacker. If anyone has any information, please…”
“My God,” Iris whispered, snapping off the radio. That poor, dear child. How terrible this must be for Helen and Bob.
‘The devil walks among us’, Iris’ grandmother used to say. If she were alive today that would probably be ‘The devil runs amok’. Or something similar.
Iris dropped the unsmoked cigarette into the deep pocket of her skirt. Retrieving the dust cloth from beneath the counter, she grimly attacked the already spotless display case as if through sheer physical effort she might banish the bad feelings inside her. She feared the savagery inflicted on Heather Myers was only the beginning.
Then it came to her. Now Iris knew who the woman was.
Or at least who she was kin to.
The instant Rachael opened her eyes she felt disoriented, confused at the unfamiliar, and at the same time familiar, surroundings.
Shouldn’t the window be facing her, the cedar chest in front of it? And the walls were too close. Then, like water gushing from a poisoned well, memory flooded her mind and heart.
She looked at her watch11:20. But it was daylight. At first she thought her watch must be wrong. But the slant of sunlight into her room told her otherwise. She must have slept what…19…20 hours?
Whatever, not nearly long enough, she thought, drawing the blanket back up over her head. A minute later, she listlessly threw it back. She had to use the bathroom. A dull pain prodded behind her eyelids.
She allowed herself a few seconds longer, watched the sun’s rays through the trees create a lacy, moving pattern over the blue blanket. Then, sighing, she slipped out of bed and went downstairs.
She looked at the newspaper hanging crookedly over the window. She would hang curtains. A simple decision. Yes, she could manage that much.
In the kitchen, she rummaged through the crusted mess of cans and bottles under the sink, found a battered kettle, rinsed it under the hot water tap and put on water for tea. An electric range had sensibly replaced the old cast-iron stove.
The tile beneath her feet was bottle green, patterned with black streaks, like roads on a map. Roads to nowhere.
Knotty pine cupboards where no cupboards had been, now flanked the small window over the sink. Through the window she could see the old Elm tree she used to climb in, and swing in as a child. It was taller now, its branches thick and gnarled as arthritic limbs.
How old was she when the man put up a swing for her in that tree? Seven. Yes, she remembered now; she’d been excited about turning eight in September. The seat was painted candy-apple red. She could still feel her small hands clutching those rough ropes, as higher and higher she would go, imagining that at any second she would fly right up into the clouds. When the fear grew too exquisite to bear, she would bring herself back down, heart thudding in her chest long after her sneakered feet had skidded to a stop in the grass.
A million years ago.
Leaving the kettle to boil, Rachael went outside to bring in the boxes from the trunk of her car, which held the few staples she’d brought with her, including teabags, necessary for the barest survival.
The bay stretched calm and blue before her. Birds chirped in the trees. No cars backing out of driveways, no kids calling to one another as they waited for the school bus. So quiet.
The air hung warm and still and heavy. Dark clouds were moving in from across the cove. Rachael unlocked the trunk and the lid groaned open, the sound amplified in the morning quiet. She lifted out one of the boxes.
Back inside, she ferreted the teabags from the box, dropped one into a chipped, blue mug she found in the cupboard. The few dishes she brought from home were in another box. She opened the door to the walk-in pantry and stale moldy air rushed out at her.
A three-legged chair lay on the floor on its side, near a torn window-screen propped against a wall. Half a dozen pickle bottles in varying sizes were lined up on the bottom shelf. No pretty cornflower edged paper here, just the blackened wood. She closed the door, opting to put the few groceries in the kitchen cupboard, although they too needed a good cleaning.
Well, that’s your thing isn’t it, Susie Homemaker?
A scream ripped the quiet, and she whirled around. The damn kettle! The insanely shrieking kettle. She took it off the burner and with a shaky hand poured the bubbling water over her teabag.
Rachael wandered from room to room with her mug of tea, gazing out of windows, moving off again. She went outside, stood on the porch step and surveyed her surroundings.
A bluejay, perched on a nearby tree, scolded her. “Hello to you too,” she said. The jay let out a screech and flew off, leaves trembling in its wake. “Don’t take it personally, Rachael,” she said. The instant the words were out, she darted a look to her right, fully expecting to be embarrassed at having been caught talking to herself. But there was no one there. She was quite alone.
Late in the afternoon, she walked down the worn path to the beach, tall grasses whispering against her jean-clad legs as she went. There, she sat down on her favorite rock with its sheered off top, the site of many a well-enjoyed peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and sipped her tea.
The sun was setting, staining the water red and gold. Though she could appreciate the beauty of Jenny’s Cove, she was unmoved by it. A part of her wanted to simply walk into the water, keep on walking. But she knew she didn’t have the courage. She’d already proven that much to herself. She wanted to live. That’s why she was here.
Had she been only fifteen the last summer she spent here? Her grandmother must have been ill even then for she died that spring. Her father made her go to the funeral; she hadn’t wanted to. She remembered barely glancing at the woman in the coffin with her hands still and folded in death. I was so angry with her for leaving me.
A year later, she’d met Greg. Handsome and charming, there wasn’t a girl in the office who didn’t flush and flutter whenever he stopped by her desk. Maybe it was because she didn’t that he’d asked her out. Certainly there were prettier, more interesting girls at Halston’s. When two months later he proposed, she accepted without hesitation. “I want a real wife, Rachael,” he’d told her. “I want you there for me when I come home.”
She’d quit her job without complaint or regret. Jeff was born the first year, Susan the next. Life was complete. She wanted nothing more than to be a good wife and mother— the mother she herself had been denied—and was content to hold the ladder while Greg climbed it.
Betty kidded her about being reincarnated from a past era. Women weren’t content to keep the home fires burning anymore, she said. They had their own dreams to follow.
But she’d never thought she was missing anything. Oh, there were a few times when Betty popped in dressed like she’d just stepped out of Career Woman, while Rachael herself was up to her elbows in formula and dirty diapers, that resentment stung. But mostly she was grateful to be a stay-at-home mom, to watch her children grow under her guidance, not to have to hand them over to someone else.
At an excited chatter behind her, Rachael turned to see dark shiny eyes observing her from the trunk of a pine. Not waiting for her side of the conversation, the squirrel gave a flick of its red bushy tail, leapt to a higher branch, vanishing among the lush, green needles.
She set her cup beside her on the rock, impulsively took off her Nikes and socks. The feel of sun-warmed sand between her toes stirred something within her—a response from the child she had been.
Rolling up her pant legs, she walked down to the water’s edge. As an icy wave broke over her feet Rachael jumped back. Beneath her bare feet, the sand shifted, made snicking sounds as it receded.
Once, she had raced down that hill, eager to challenge the numbing cold of the Atlantic, filled with a sense of her own power. Whatever happened to that girl?
She stayed on the beach until the sun was almost down, the water darkened and distant thunder rumbled in the sky. Then she emptied the cold dregs of her tea into the sand.
Even through Susan’s fleece-lined Save the Whales sweatshirt that she’d left behind when she went off to college, Rachael had begun to feel chilly. As she bent to gather up her shoes and socks, a drop of rain slapped the back of her neck, ran under the sweatshirt on insect legs.
It was then that she noticed, about ten yards to her left, footsteps leading out of the water. Strange, I didn’t notice them before. She followed them to where their edges blurred in the drier sand, disappearing in the tall grasses on the level above her.
Scanning the beach in either direction, she looked for a matching set of prints leading into the water, but there were only her own. Though she could hardly boast of tiny feet, these were much larger, made by someone wearing shoes or boots. A man, she thought, noting that the prints nearest the water, where they were more deeply embedded in the sand, were distinctly patterned in circles and half-moons.
Fat raindrops pelted down, slowly at first, striking her face and arms. Lightning flashed over the water, backlighting swollen black clouds, chasing the mystery of the footprints from her mind, and Rachael up the hill. She’d no sooner closed the door behind her when the sky opened, unleashing a torrent of rain that fell in straight, violent sheets.
She’d almost forgotten the late summer storms that visited Jenny’s Cove.
Like a bad dog with an unsuspecting deer in its sites, he watched her running up to the house. His narrowed eyes tracked her movements until she was inside. Then he lowered the binoculars and grinned.
Soon.
The bell above the door of Iris’ store chimed and Iris looked up from her book, Modern Techniques in Pottery Making, and smiled, experiencing the same warm pleasure she always did at the sight of her nephew.
“Peter, how wonderful. What can I get you? Coffee, a cold drink?”
His hair was wet from the rain and Iris noticed for the first time that it was beginning to recede. He’d had such beautiful thick hair as a boy, the color of cornsilk. She remembered Heather Myers telling her that the girls at school thought he looked like Harrison Ford. Iris couldn’t see it herself. She thought Peter was better looking. But perhaps she was biased. Thoughts of Heather lay heavy on her heart.
“Not a thing, thanks. Just dropped by to see if I couldn’t interest my favorite aunt in joining me for dinner. I happen to know Hartley took Kathy in a nice catch of flounder today.”
Kathy was Kathy Burgess, who owned Kathy’s, a café noted for its good home-cooked food and the fact that it stayed open year round. It was also licensed and Iris could have done with a good shot of whiskey just about then. Reluctantly, she declined the invitation. “Best offer I’ve had all day, but I’m going to have to ask for a rain-check. There's something—I have to do tonight.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It—could be. Make it tomorrow and you’ve got yourself a date.”
“Well, can’t promise the flounder will be as fresh,” he kidded, “but you’re on.” His lighthearted note did not hide his disappointment. She suspected this was one of those nights when going back to an empty apartment held little appeal. Ever since Mary Ellen’s death, three years ago, Peter spent most of his time at the school where he taught English. His students had become his purpose in life. Hearing the awful news about Heather couldn’t be helping his mood. She’d been one of his favorites. “I—uh, heard about Heather. Do you know how…?”
“She’s in pretty bad shape, Aunt Iris,” he said, with a mix of sadness and anger. “Only time will tell.” He hunkered down to pat Cleo, who was rubbing against his leg, demanding attention, purring like an old washing machine.
“I wrote a note to Helen,” Iris said. “It’s so hard to know what to say.”
“There are never adequate words for something like this. But I know Helen will appreciate it.”
After Peter left, Iris donned her coat and scarf, scooped Cleo up in her arms and left the store. While fumbling for her keys in her pocket and trying not to lose Cleo, she darted out into the rain.
Wet, but safely inside the car, she’d driven only a short distance when Nate Prichard’s old pickup rumbled toward them, water splaying from the trucks big tires. Cleo sprang up on her hind legs, front paws propped against the windshield. As the truck roared past, she let out a low, anxious growl.
“I know, Cleo. He’s not my favorite person, either.”
Across the cove, in the village of Harding, Peter parked his car in a small clearing and made his way to the log cabin. The sound of someone chopping wood traveled to him as he tromped through thick brush, navigating gnarled roots and brambles, fallen branches. The smell of sawdust, pine and rain hung in the air. The rain had let up, but by the look of those clouds, not for long.
Hartley was intently splitting his winter wood. Not wanting to startle his old friend, Peter called out, "Hey, Hartley, you’re getting a pretty good pile stacked up there.”
Only when Luke let out a short excited bark and bounded over to Peter, did the old man look up. Luke’s tail wagged happily as the black and white Collie mix gave him a big doggy grin. Peter scratched behind his ears. “Hey, Luke, fella.” Luke was getting on in years, but clearly hadn’t lost his puppy zest for living.
As Peter came into view, a wide grin broke on Hartley’s face. “Hey, Peter, good to see you, boy. How you getting’ on?”
“I’ve felt better,” Peter said, speaking above his normal volume, knowing Hartley’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be. Though he’d be too proud to admit it and get himself a hearing aid. “Glad to see you got your boat back.”