Read Child of a Rainless Year Online

Authors: Jane Lindskold

Child of a Rainless Year (37 page)

“Go on.”
“But there’s a single image—a white rectangle—that I have glimpsed a few times. I just looked at the object case here, and there’s nothing on it that shape. I suppose there could be something loose in the barrel, but I didn’t hear anything, and both ends of the barrel are sealed as they should be.”
“Try again,” Domingo urged. “Focus on that white rectangle. Is there anything else about it you can notice?”
I did as he requested, talking out loud as I looked through the eyepiece. “It’s not there. No, wait. There it is. It’s off to the right, middle of the panel—and there’s nothing to match it anywhere else.”
“A rectangle,” I heard Domingo say. “Like a door?”
“No, not quite, proportions aren’t right. More like a standard sheet of paper, eight and a half by eleven.”
“Any writing on it?” I heard the laughter in Domingo’s voice and knew he was making a joke.
“Actually,” I said, “there’s something.”
I focused in, doing my best to eliminate the confusion of colors around the white rectangle. Either the white rectangle was getting larger, or my vision was getting better, because I was now certain that there was something written on the white. I felt myself focusing as I’d learned to do once I realized that nothing is just one color—that a lawn is made up of numerous shades of green and yellow and brown all intermingled to different degrees; that a newspaper cartoon varies in shade depending not only on the inks, but on the paper; that a computer image is made up of minute dots.
My mind fastened on the degrees of difference in a fashion that had nothing to do with the quality of my eyesight, and I realized that what I was seeing were handwritten words, blue ink against white paper. They said: “Mira, Since you can see this you need to call me. I strongly suggest you do so before you involve yourself further in matters whose consequences you do not fully comprehend.” Then came a phone number with an area code I didn’t recognize. “Please call me.” The note was signed, “Michael Hart.”
I stared at the note, mechanically reciting the phone number over and over again until I was sure I had it fixed in my memory, then I lowered the kaleidoscope. Domingo, pen in hand, was staring at me. The phone number—no hyphens, just a sequence of ten numbers, was written on a scrap of paper he had balanced on his knee.
“You want to tell me why you kept repeating this number?” Domingo said with that deceptive mildness some men use rather than shouting.
My head swam and I put the kaleidoscope down with very deliberate care. I felt wrung out, or tottery drunk, or like I was recovering from a high fever. Nothing seemed real but the colored patterns of rose and crystal still dancing against my memory.
“The white rectangle,” I said, “was a note. A note from Michael Hart. He was one of my trustees when I first went to live with the Fenns. He said to call him.”
“And this is his phone number?” Domingo asked, fluttering the piece of paper.
I nodded. Exhaustion was now blending with nausea. I didn’t know whether I wanted to sleep or vomit. One thing I knew. I couldn’t stay sitting upright one moment longer. I toppled to the side in the delicate vanity chair, wondering idly if I would hit the open drawer and break it.
Domingo reached to stay my fall—but it was the silent women who caught me. Two of them, dressed in housekeeping dresses from another era, their long hair pulled up and back, tucked under little caps. Their hands were firm and strong, and at their touch I remembered being dressed by them, being tucked into bed by them, even little pats on my head.
They bore me up and off. I don’t think I broke anything.
I awoke the next morning to the sunlight streaming in my bedroom windows. Birds were singing. I closed my eyes and listened to the birds for a while, until the scent of coffee brought me fully awake.
I opened my eyes, half-expecting to see a cup of coffee waiting for me on a tray borne hence by invisible hands. What I saw was Domingo. He was sitting in a chair he’d pulled up alongside the bed, a mug of coffee steaming between his cupped hands, a worried expression on his face.
I smiled at him, and at his answering smile remembered what—or more appropriately, what not—I usually wore to bed. My hands flew to make sure the covers were pulled up for modesty’s sake, and Domingo chuckled.
“You are decent, as the saying goes. Even more, sitting here on the bedside table is a very nice piece of clothing, what I believe is called a bed-jacket. Would you like me to hand it to you? I don’t see how you can have any coffee with the blanket pulled to your chin.”
“Thank you,” I replied with what dignity I could manage. “I’ll take the bed-jacket, and ask you to turn your back.”
“Even better,” Domingo said. “I will turn my back,
and
close my eyes. Like elsewhere in this house, this room has many mirrors. Please applaud me for being a perfect gentleman.”
“I will,” I promised, accepting both the proffered item of clothing and his offer of courtesy. The latter thrilled me. You don’t make a big deal about keeping your eyes to yourself if you haven’t thought otherwise, do you?
The bed-jacket certainly wasn’t anything I had brought with me, nor did it have the lavender and cedar scent of something stored away. The colors, a delicate violet floral print against the palest of blues, were flattering to my coloring. I had a mental image of the silent women who had sewn for my mother. Had they run this up last night while I slept? I was beyond refusing to consider the possibility.
Then again, they might have found it in a trunk in the attic and washed it. They might even have run the new machines. I could imagine their delight. I’d bought good ones.
“You may open your eyes and turn around,” I said when I had myself suitably attired and propped up against a couple of pillows. “And you said something about coffee …”
Domingo bowed over his hand, then poured me a cup from the carafe waiting on one of the highboys.
“Good,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you for the coffee and for your gentlemanly courtesy. May I ask what happened last night?”
“What do you remember?” he asked, his expression keen.
“I remember a letter from Mr. Hart telling me to call and giving a phone number. I remember being very tired and dizzy. Then I think I fainted. I felt hands catch me, but they weren’t yours. They belonged to the silent women.”
“So they did,” Domingo agreed.
His voice, which could talk about the needs and desires of the House without sounding anything other than matter-of-fact, was alive with wonder now.
“They caught you, keeping you from crashing into the drawer full of kaleidoscopes—which would have been very bad for both you and for the kaleidoscopes. I might have caught you, but not without being much more clumsy. I offered to pick you up, and they accepted my offer with great politeness, directing me to carry you across the landing to your room. Once I had you on the bed, they ushered me out with tremendous officiousness, telling me that they could get you ready for bed, that they had done so often enough before. Then one showed me out, and told me I might call again in the morning. When I came by this morning, the kitchen door was open, but no one was around. I did, however, find the coffee things laid ready, and knew you well enough to take a hint.”
I blinked at this speech, then shook my head in wonder.
“‘They,’ you say. How many were there?”
“Two. Both ladies of uncertain age and race. They could have been taken for Hispanic or Anglo—although probably not for Indians, and certainly not for Negroes. They were dressed in long skirts, but moved in them as easily or practically as you do in jeans.”
“And certainly more gracefully,” I said ruefully. “Long skirts worn right do cover a multitude of sins. Modern girls make the mistake of walking in a skirt as if they are still wearing jeans and end up looking terrible.”
“You,” Domingo said, “never make that mistake.”
“Well,” I replied, pleased at the compliment, “I did grow up Colette’s daughter. Poor Aunt May had to wean me of my taste for finery, and never did quite succeed.”
“I’m glad,” Domingo said. “I like seeing you dressed up.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly, probably aware that he was flirting, if ever so delicately, with a woman wearing nothing but a bed-jacket.
“Tell me, Mira, are you going to do what that note said? Are you going to call Michael Hart?”
“I am,” I replied with more firmness than I felt. “But first I want a shower and breakfast. Would you like to come back in about forty minutes and join me for something to eat?”
Domingo rose. “Unless you think you might need help in your ablutions. I would be happy to offer a steady arm to lean upon.”
I smiled, but now that I felt certain of his interest, I had no desire to go at this ass-backward, and somehow I thought that, masculine male or not, neither, really, did Domingo.
“Come back for breakfast,” I said. “I think we both have had ample proof that for some reason this House doesn’t want me to fall.”
Thirty-five minutes later I was in the kitchen. The silent women might have manifested last night more vigorously than ever before, but they hadn’t yet stepped into the routine servant roles they had held during my mother’s tenure. I found the kitchen clean, and the coffeepot washed and waiting in the dish rack, but no bacon sizzling or waffles emitting fragrant steam from the big, chrome-plated waffle iron I’d found in one of the cabinets.
I could make do, though, with what I had, and by the time Domingo arrived I was mixing up a batch of waffle batter, and bacon was defrosting in the microwave.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
“I’d like more coffee,” I said, “but it had better be decaf this time. That okay with you?”
“Just so. My nerves are dancing enough already, I think.”
“Great. I’m making waffles. I found a waffle iron a couple weeks ago, and tested it. Seemed to still work, but if it doesn’t I suppose we can have pancakes from the same batter.”
“Wonderful,” Domingo said, raising his voice to be heard over the coffee grinder. “And Blanco is certain that he smells bacon.”
“He does indeed. We could cook it right in the microwave, but it never seems to taste quite right when you do it that way, not crisp enough. I thought I’d get a skillet going as soon as the waffles were started.”
“Let me,” Domingo said. “Tell me where to find a frying pan.”
I did, and Domingo handled the bacon while I located syrup and butter, and set the table. The waffle iron worked as if it had been waiting for just this chance to show more modem appliances what they lacked, and I felt the last of my flagging energy restored as I devoured a couple of the rich, buttery squares. As I ate, I realized what had been missing in the morning sounds.
“Where’s the painting crew?”
“I told them I had an emergency job for them else where. I thought you might need some privacy.”
“Thanks. Did you have a job?”
“I found one.”
I nodded. Unsure how to interpret this coddling, I changed the subject.
“I looked up Mr. Hart’s area code in the directory,” I said. “He lives in Minnesota—or at least he’s taking phone calls there these days.”
“When are you going to call him?”
“Right after breakfast, before I have a chance to think about all the reasons I shouldn’t call.”
“Good. Eat more. You’re looking much better. When I came up to your room this morning, you looked so pale. I knew your skin was fair, but I never realized how translucent. It is amazing you haven’t sunburned to a crisp.”
“Aunt May taught me about good skin care right from the start,” I said. “I think I’ve been first in line for each new generation of moisturizers and sun blocks.”
“Wise,” Domingo said. “I admired your skin from the first. I also like that you do not wear too many cosmetics, but are still interested in your appearance. Too many women, they go to one extreme or the other. Either they say ‘no makeup,’ and that means no anything else and dressing like slobs. The other way, I think they don’t even know what their own faces look like.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s such a part of female culture. ‘Putting on my face,’ like the one you were born with isn’t good enough for public show. I want to scream and rant whenever I hear that song that starts with something about waking up and putting on makeup, like that’s what she has to do to start her day. I don’t mind when cosmetics are adornment. Then it’s kind of wonderful, like the spread of a peacock’s tail, but when it becomes a disguise …”
I shivered, remembering, and my stomach twisted so that I pushed my plate away from me.
“Tell me about it,” Domingo said. “This is more than feminist revolt against the patriarchal system.”
I looked at him, arching my brows in surprise at his familiarity with the jargon.
“I have sisters,” he said. “You’ve met Evelina. Then there’s Sabrina, who you haven’t met yet. She was quite a hell-raiser. Marched in protests, the whole thing. The bra-burning really upset my mother, especially since, well, Sabrina needs a bra.”

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