Sing It to Her Bones (3 page)

“Connie!” I called.

“Out here!” she replied.

The water in the coffee machine on the counter had just finished burbling through the filter, so I poured myself a cup and one for Connie. In the refrigerator I found some half-and-half. Connie drinks her coffee black with sugar, so I checked the sell-by date before pouring any of it into my mug, just in case this carton was left over from the last time I visited, over three months ago.

Carrying both mugs, I passed through the utility room into Connie’s studio, which had been cleverly converted from a derelict screen porch.

Connie was working, sorting through a pile of dried ornamental gourds of all colors, shapes and sizes. On the workbench in front of her, pots of paints and brushes waited, lined up in orderly rows. The room smelled of oil paint and shellac.

Connie squinted critically at the gourd she had been painting. She had turned a plump butternut squash into a whimsical farm boy in blue overalls, his face dotted with freckles.

I chuckled. “How you do it is beyond me, Connie. You see beyond the vegetable exterior right into its very soul.”

I picked up a crooked neck squash and turned it in
several directions. “They all look like ducks to me. Or swans.”

Connie laid the farm boy down on a sheet of newspaper and began work on another figure. It was clearly a French schoolgirl, her beret formed by the curling stem end of the gourd. Connie dabbed a spot of pink onto each of the figure’s cheeks.

I passed her the coffee.

“Thanks, Hannah.”

She took a sip, then held up a graceful sandpiper, its neck bent as if caught in the act of picking clams out of the sand. “What do you think of this one?”

“I think they’re all wonderful. Where are they going?”

She waved her arm in a wide arc, including in its scope most of the shelves on the wall behind her. “I’m sending this lot up to New York at the end of the week.” The shelves were full of gourd soldiers and gourd musicians. Whole gourd families—boys, girls, mamas, papas—smiled out at me with twinkling eyes. There were scores of ducks, geese, swans, roosters, and other fanciful figures.

“You’ve come just in time to help me pack up.” Connie pointed to another corner of the room where flattened cartons, rolls of bubble wrap, and bags of plastic peanuts were stored. “I haven’t had much help out here since Craig died. Except for Colonel, of course.”

Hearing his name, the old dog raised his head from where it rested on his paws. Until then he had been sleeping comfortably on a braided mat in front of the screen door that opened out into the backyard.

I put my coffee down on Connie’s workbench, knelt down, and called to him, patting my knee. “Come here, boy. Come on, Colonel.”

Colonel slowly unfolded, stretched, and staggered stiffly over to lick my face. I grabbed both his ears and scratched behind them, the way he liked.

Colonel was a short-haired, white and brown mixed breed, half German shepherd and half fox terrier. Fortunately for Connie, who wanted a watchdog, the part that barked was German shepherd.

“You’re looking pretty good for an elderly dog.” I scratched vigorously down the bumps along his spine. “Joined AARP yet?”

Connie laughed. “He’s got arthritis so bad he can sometimes barely move. But let him catch sight of a squirrel, and he’s a pup again.”

Colonel rolled onto his back and offered me his stomach. As I rubbed, his back legs quivered in ecstasy. I thought about all the times I had considered adopting a dog. But we live in downtown Annapolis, where you’ve got to fence the yard and walk your dog on a leash. Not much fun for a dog or its owner.

Colonel had been a companion to my father-in-law during his final illness. He’d been named after a Korean war buddy of Paul’s father, and though at first the dog had been called Colonel Sam, it wasn’t long before it was shortened to Colonel.

“Want to take Colonel out for a walk while I fix breakfast?” Connie rinsed out the brush she had been using and set the schoolgirl figure on a shelf to dry.

“Sure. Soon as I get dressed.”

Back in my room, I changed into jeans, pulled a sweatshirt over my head, and slipped into my jogging shoes. As I tightened and tied the laces, I was reminded that I hadn’t been doing a lot of jogging lately, just exercises like spider-walking my arm up a wall. This was supposed to keep the damaged muscles on my chest and under my arms from tightening up. I didn’t bother with any makeup and didn’t feel like putting on my wig. Instead, I rummaged in one of the plastic grocery bags that passed for matched luggage when I’m in a hurry to pack. This one was full of hats friends had given me: a hat dripping with sequins, one with cat ears, a navy cap from the USS
Ramage
DDG61. Sequins weren’t exactly appropriate for dog walking, I thought, and certainly not the cat ears! After a few moments I selected a Baltimore Orioles cap with my name, Hannah, stitched on it in elaborate sewing machine script and settled it snugly over the soft brown stubble just beginning to reappear on my head.

As I paused through the kitchen again, Connie was frying bacon. I left my mug in the sink—Connie didn’t have a dishwasher—and returned to the studio.

“Come on, boy.” I unhooked the screen door, and Colonel loped happily through.

Connie’s backyard was a square of grass the size of a tennis court, closely mowed. It grew rich and green where the shadow of the maple trees protected it from the hot sun, more yellow where the grass was exposed. To my right a gravel driveway led up to the barn that
Connie used as a garage. Beyond the barn a fence marched off into the distance, dipping now and then as it followed the gently rolling fields that sloped down to a large pond just visible on the horizon. Colonel trotted ahead, his tail in a tight C curled smartly over his back.

Near the barn I opened the gate and passed through, remembering to close it behind me. It was a habit I’d got into when there used to be cows around. A stick leaned crookedly against the gatepost, and I picked it up, mostly so I’d have something to do with my hands.

Behind the barn we passed Connie’s kitchen garden, where neat rows of young plants were just beginning to push their way up through the soil. In the field beyond, nearly an acre of hills and poles was devoted to the business of cultivating her ornamental gourds. Colonel and I skirted the planted fields and walked through the tall grass, following the fence line. The farm to the west of the fence belonged to the Nichols family, but they had moved to Florida long ago, abandoning their farm.

When we reached the pond, Colonel planted his front paws at the water’s edge, took a long drink, then chased a frog into the water. He sat alert, ears erect, studying with hopeful eyes the ripples where the frog had submerged. When he panted, his clean, pinkish purple tongue hung out, dripping saliva onto the ground.

He probably would have sat there forever, but I
raised my arm to distract him and threw the stick as far as I could into the nearby woods, the scar on my chest stretching and stinging with the effort.

Colonel bolted off through the trees. He returned in triumph a few moments later, carrying the stick in his mouth. He trotted over and laid it at my muddy feet. I retrieved the stick and continued walking as Colonel danced and circled around me, urging me to toss the stick again, but I was already tired of the game.

Once the fence had been a continuous line of posts and barbed wire. Occasionally, to save posts, Paul’s father had nailed the wire to the trees that grew naturally along the property line. After many years the trees had grown around the wire, engulfing it. It now appeared as if some magician had pulled the wire right through the trees. In other places where it was not adequately supported, the wire had rusted through and separated, leaving gaps.

For some reason I was profoundly happy. I found myself singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,” whacking the stick against my leg to the rhythm of the song as I walked. Colonel grew bored and ambled on ahead, sniffing at fence posts and tree roots, lifting a leg every so often to mark his territory.

Suddenly he began to root around, poking his nose into a pile of leaves that had blown up against the fence last fall. I heard a frantic rustling; then a rabbit bolted out of the leaves and dashed easily through the fence into our neighbor’s field. Colonel raced off in joyful pursuit.

“Colonel! Colonel! You get back here!” The beastly dog ignored me.

I wasted some time searching back along the way we had come for a break in the fence, then gave up. Risking a tear in my “Smith College—100 years of Women on Top” sweatshirt, I held down the lower strand of barbed wire with one hand and carefully squirmed through. I ran after the dog, yelling, “Colonel, come!” and waving my stick impotently.

Colonel had disappeared behind the house.

I had never seen the old Nichols place up close. The once-white siding on the ancient two-story dwelling was pitted and stained gray-green from the woodsmoke that used to pump out of the chimney night and day. Dark green shutters, missing most of their slats, hung crookedly from an insufficient number of nails. Nearly all the windows were broken—juvenile delinquents in training were responsible for that, I was sure—and most had been boarded up. Shingles torn from the roof by the wind littered the ground.

Colonel had apparently cornered his rabbit. As I rounded the side of the house, I saw him guarding an old cistern that had been used to collect rainwater back in the days when wells weren’t so easy to dig. The cistern was a concrete cylinder about five feet in diameter, set deeply into the ground and topped by a cover of wooden boards joined together with wide metal straps. Two large, flat stones rested on top.

Colonel continued to bark, but I couldn’t see the rabbit. Perhaps it was hiding in the bushes that had grown
up, lush and green, around the foundation of the house back by the cistern where water was plentiful.

When I was still about twenty feet away, Colonel trotted over to me, circled twice, then returned to his duty station by the cistern. He barked, then looked at me expectantly. He barked again.

“Are you trying to tell me something, dog? Who do you think you are? Lassie?”

As I got closer, I could see that the cistern’s cover was cracked.

“Did your rabbit go down the well, Colonel?” I peered through a gap in the cover but could see only a sliver of light on the water below that reflected the blue sky above me and a dark shape that must have been the shadow of my head.

“Well, boy, if your rabbit’s down there, he better be a damn good swimmer.”

With both hands, I pushed one of the rocks to the ground, then the other. It took more effort to wrestle the cover itself aside. This done, Colonel, ever helpful, placed both paws on the lip of the cistern, hunched his shoulders, and peered in.

The cistern was fed from a pipe leading into it from the roof of the house. It was impossible to tell how deep it was because of all the water it contained. After the recent rain the water level was fairly high, only four or five feet from the place on the rim where my hand rested. A rusty automobile axle jutted out of the water at an angle, wrapped in a tangle of baling wire. Like the house, this cistern clearly hadn’t been used in years.

“No rabbit, Colonel, old boy. Just a lot of junk.” I grasped his collar and pulled until his front paws touched the ground. Before I could turn to push the wooden cover back into place, however, Colonel was leaning into the cistern again, howling pitifully. “For heaven’s sake, Colonel! I told you there’s nothing down there!” Using both hands, I tugged on his collar again, but Colonel refused to budge.

While my hands were occupied with the stubborn dog, a sudden gust of wind lifted my Orioles cap and snatched it from my head. I watched helplessly as it sailed into the cistern, revolving slowly like an autumn leaf. It floated on the surface for a few seconds, then began to sink beneath the stagnant water.

“Now look what you’ve done, you stupid dog!” I picked up my stick and used it to poke around in the floating debris, trying to fish up my precious cap before it sank and was lost forever. I had no intention of walking back to the house bald. I leaned into the cistern as far as I could with safety and used my stick to push aside some deteriorating blue fabric, an old milk carton, and what looked like a white plastic garbage bag.

But it wasn’t a bag. Something solid was floating there that responded to my gently prodding by turning over lazily. Not a plastic bag at all, but a pair of human buttocks, with what looked like part of a leg attached.

“Oh, God, Colonel! Let’s pray I’m seeing things. Let’s hope it’s a dead deer or a small calf down there.” I felt ill. But I couldn’t convince myself, let alone the dog, that I was seeing anything but the sad remains of a human being.

I ran the mile or so back to Connie’s at record speed, although everything conspired to delay me: the barbed wire fence plucking at my clothes, the muddy field sucking greedily at my shoes. After what seemed like hours, I burst into the studio, the screen door slapping shut behind me. I found Connie in the kitchen, slicing a grapefruit.

“What happened to your hat?” she asked.

“Connie, I think there’s a body in the cistern over at the old Nichols place!” I paused to catch my breath, bracing my arm on the kitchen counter. “Who do I call out here? You were married to a cop! Who would you call?”

Dear, unflappable Connie looked up at me, then laid the knife down with elaborate care on the cutting board. “Nine-one-one,” she said. “Just like everyone else.”

chapter

3

You’ve got to hand it to those folks at 911.
While I stood at the kitchen counter panting, my heart pounding in my ears and feeling as if a live, leaping thing in my chest had swollen to twice normal size, crowding out my lungs, Connie made the call. Almost as soon as she hung up, we heard the firehouse sirens in town kick in, wailing long and loud, the old-fashioned way, to call in the volunteers.

Connie led me back to her studio. There the windows offered a panoramic view over the fields as far as the next ridge where the road into town and a scattering of houses lay.