Twillyweed (22 page)

“Okay, Mom.” I hung up and thought I must go and buy some jeans and sneakers and sweatshirts. And—I sat down to make a list—some lovely new sheets. Anything at all would be better than going back to sleeping with Lefty on that couch.

Jenny Rose

Jenny Rose, too, had a phone call to make. She waited until everyone had gone their separate ways and then she called.

“Hello, Mrs. Lassiter?”

“Hello, yes? This is Darlene Lassiter.”

“Hi, it's Jenny Rose Cashin, Mrs. Lassiter. Brigid and Deirdre's girl. I'm here at Twillyweed.”

“Oh, are you, now? Just a minute, let me sit down. I've just come back from sorting out old Father Schmidt and I'm just drying my hands. There. Are you settled in?” Before waiting for a reply she blurted, “We heard all about you rescuing the Piet girl!”

“Oh, that was nothing.” Jenny Rose swayed modestly.

“That's not what Teddy Cupsand said. Painted you up as a real hero, he did. And your picture in the paper. What will they think of that back home!”

“No doubt they'll brush it off as just good luck as I did,” Jenny Rose said, imagining, anyway, the lot of them leaning over the paper on the bar at the White Tree.

“Well, you've done us proud. Now tell me, lass, have you met the little boy?”

“I have. He's darling.”

“Not too much trouble? Because there was talk he's a bit backward.”

“No! He's bright as a shiny new penny. He's just shy.”
And hurt
, she thought but didn't say.

“That's fine, then.”

“I wanted—The reason I'm calling is to say thank you for hooking me up with this job—I'm sorry I haven't come by in person, it's all been a mad dash—and to bring you greetings from home.”

“They're all well?”

“Yeah, they're fine. So, I wanted to say thanks and all …”

“That's a good lass. I remember you when you were just a wee thing. Hot tempered! Tempest in a teapot, that's what we used to call you, dashing all about the cricket field. Will you come and pay me a visit?”

“Soon as I have a few days off. They're talking about a race and I might be able to sail …”

“Oh, you'll love that. All sorts of nonsense these rich folk get into. And the fireworks at the end! If I don't see you before, I'll see you there.”

“Sounds great.”

“Oh, and be careful of that Mr. Cupsand. He's got an eye for the ladies, that one.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

“Good-bye.”

“Yes, good-bye.”

Mrs. Lassiter sat by the phone for a minute more, thinking.

Then Father Schmidt ambled in. “Are you done?”

“What is it now?”

“Come on, Darlene. I've been a good boy and I've eaten all my peas. Show them to me, come on.”

“No. Go away with you.”

His eyes glowed like coals. “Just this once more, Darlene. Let me see them.” He wriggled excitedly into the oak chair.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she muttered, pleased, unbuttoning her blouse.

Claire

Late at night I heard some noise out in front of the cottage and went to investigate. Mrs. Dellaverna was standing there struggling with the wisteria carcass. She had it lifted over her head. “Don't just stand there!” she berated me. “Help!”

I ran to her. “It's no use!” I cried. “The roots are up. It's no good. It's dead!”

“
Porca miseria!
” she snarled. “Get down on the ground and cover the roots! What's the matter with you? Hurry!”

I did as I was told. I dragged and dumped enough dirt over to cover the naked roots and then helped the old woman hold up the trunk. Believe me, she was strong as an ox! I trembled under the clumsy weight, but she stood there, feet planted, until I got around and lugged the python of a vine up the steps and thrust its thick hulk back onto the roof, trying best I could not to upset the already wilted foliage. Together we wedged it, bypassing the drainpipe, and laid the old torso back home on the generous swoop of the roof. “It's best we do it in the moonlight, so it don't get a shock,” she said. She had a crude wooden hacker with an iron hatchet and watched while I dug up more soil with it and tidied the roots over, absorbed in my task. Doubtful, I stood back to look at it, in place but clearly wilted. “I can't believe we did it!” I marveled, but I couldn't see where she'd gone. I caught her unawares beneath the seaside of the house, measures of broken twine in her hands, an expression of panic gripping her face. “What's the matter?” I said.

“Nothing,” she frowned, squinting worriedly out at the sea. “Wet the dirt down good now with the hose.”

When I finally got to bed, I tossed and turned on the lumpy sofa, far too wired to sleep. There was unease about, some discomfort I couldn't put my finger on. The wind hurled across the bay. It was now that I really missed my dog, Jake. A dog is a comfort. I lay there reliving Enoch's cruel betrayal, gnawing on it, unable to get past the shock of it. And who knew what new wanton carousal my Jake was witness to at this very minute?

Giving up, I turned on the bright overhead light and pulled a couple of clocks down from the wall. None of them appeared to be broken, just neglected. They were each of them the antique, wind-up type and it was kind of fun seeing them spring back to life. I got up and stretched and walked around and decided I might as well take a stroll into town. How thrilled Jake would have been by an unscheduled late-night walk, I thought. I knew he was better off where he was, but still I resented not having him. Funny how a dog steals into your heart.

On my way into the village I passed the local bar, Gallagher's. It was so good to hear people singing like that and such a nice song, an old song, “Charming Billy.” I glanced in the window and who did I see but Morgan Donovan, drunk as a post, and Paige, sitting rigidly beside him on the bench. There she was in her pale-green Chanel suit and brooch. She remained at all times the lady, didn't she? He was waving his beer and raucously singing “She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother!” with the rest of them. I hurried on by, deflated, and found another place, the Tupelo Honey, but it was mobbed. Then I saw Oliver, Teddy, and Mr. Piet at the bar and went in.

Oliver, delighted to see me, bought me some drinks and I bought him a couple in return. He introduced me around. “Teddy,” I said after an hour or so, “the wind must have knocked Noola's wisteria vine off the house. I've managed to get it back up. I think it just might live. Isn't that good?” Teddy sucked his chin into his neck. “Morgan will be so glad,” he said. A big fellow with a kind face overheard us. He said, “Morgan Donovan? Was over there in Bosnia. Never the same after that. Used to be a lot of fun, Morgan.” My ears perked up. Then Teddy said to him, “Well, that's it. He's in a tossup. Mother's a mick and his father's a Scot. No wonder he's mixed up with us Cupsands. He's mixed up completely!” He pulled on his drink and held my eyes, finding himself funny. “That's the thing with the immigrants,” he went on, “first they take your job and they take your land and the next thing you know they take your woman. They're all on the take.”

Mr. Piet didn't move or flicker an eye. I was a little surprised at Teddy.

Oliver put his scotch glass hard on the counter. “I wouldn't go callin' Morgan Donovan on the take when I was around, Teddy. Not if I was you. Now Morgan, twice he sailed in a race around the world, and he would have won that second time, too, if that whale hadn't walked into him and Glinty. That was a funny story.”

“Oh, not now, Oliver!” Teddy rolled side to side.

“And don't forget, he was I4 Implementation force over in Bosnia. Did them exhumations for mass graves. Took it in the hand from a semiautomatic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Teddy skated this road familiarly. “But all the ex-army jocks are nuts if they were there in the thick of it. And you saw what happens in the jails. They're all like that. Like the cops. Wall of blue.” He was drunk, too.

Mr. Piet turned him about on his bar stool and looked him dead in the eye. “You're not saying Morgan's dishonest, are you? How would you like it if I said all teachers are pedophiles? Huh?”

“Well, they're not. …”

“Oh, really? I saw it in the papers what they're up to. I can show you.”

“C'mon, Piet”—he held him on the sleeve—“don't be so serious. And don't pretend you haven't heard the scuttlebutt.” He glanced right and left. “Plenty of folks think Morgan had something to do with pushing Noola over the edge. I'm not saying it was so wrong … I'm just saying.”

“I'm not joking with you. One more word about Morgan's integrity and I'll—”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.”

“And get your hand off my arm.”

We'd all been drinking like we were going to the chair, so anything could happen. Oliver gave me a nod and we stood carefully. He paid the bill, and he and I stalked off arm in arm. There must have been a thousand stars as we rolled unsteadily up the hill. I hadn't left a light on, and the cottage through the brambles was otherworldly and unwelcoming. “Oliver,” I said nervously, “there isn't any truth to those rumors about Morgan Donovan, right?”

“
Phhh
.” Oliver wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat meaningfully onto the gravel. But he didn't say no, either. We parted at the cottage path and anyone could hear him singing drunkenly at the top of his voice as he staggered back to Twillyweed.

The cottage was closed and overheated, and I threw open the sea window. I tried to sleep but sleep wouldn't come. I opened a bottle of Bordeaux and, with the aid of the French, passed out. Then, very late, I sat up in bed, wide awake. In the twisted, whirly place where my dreams and the fog came together, I thought I saw a hunched-up figure pass by the window.
A ghost
, I thought, but I didn't screech. I covered my head. Common sense got me eventually and I edged away the plaid blanket to see a small light in the east. And something else. I remembered Morgan's remark about
some people thinking in order to be a lady one has to give up being a woman
. I lay back down and snuggled into my pillow, absurdly reassured, and slept.

Chapter Four

Claire

Those days passed—like spring days should, I suppose—with rain. It befitted my mood and the lonesomeness of the job at hand. It was what I needed, though. And if it wasn't raining when I walked out of the cottage, there would be Mrs. Dellaverna watering down the reconstructed wisteria vine with her hose just to make sure it stayed soaked. Its tendrils remained dilapidated, but if you walked up to it and held the core, you could somehow tell it was alive. Cupping its stalk, I almost sensed its pulse. A small, manipulated miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.

All the cleaning people I could find wouldn't be available for a while so, rolling up my sleeves, I began to do it myself. I worked like mad on the inside of that cottage, so occupied with discarding and redistributing I hardly had time to think of Enoch. And all around it was beautiful. At the start, the pale pinks of crabapple and cherry had decorated the hills; now tight buds of creamy dogwood were loosening. Tender, impertinent mushrooms sprang up all over. About midday I'd always treat myself to a break. Sometimes I'd prepare a bowl of oatmeal and milled flax on the tiny stove, lopping in the five almonds allotted by Edgar Cayce, some banana and canned black cherries, slathered it with half-and-half, sprinkled it with cinnamon. I'd take one of Noola's well-worn novels and climb onto the huge, lumpy easy chair that must have been her favorite for it faced the window like someone else's would the TV. I could knot myself into Noola's chair and stare out at the sea any time I chose, I realized. As the rainy weeks passed, I began to appreciate my own company and didn't particularly want someone around, confusing my steady, slow progress. I'd even managed to patch the leaky roof, climbing up with Mrs. Dellaverna as my ladder holder and watch. Granted, it was makeshift, stuffing heavy cardboard and unmatched socks into the gaps, but it stopped the drips and no one was the wiser. Little by little I was making headway, and I didn't want some thoughtless girl throwing out the mate of an under-the-chair mukluk until I'd found the other. And find it I did, locked between the headboard and the fitted sheet. I decided to keep them for myself. I threw them into the warm wash twice, way overdoing the fabric softener, then stuffed them with paper towels and let them dry slowly, away from any direct heat. They had hand-sewn buffalo leather soles so you had to be careful. It took a few days for them to relax but—I looked down at my feet, admiring them—now they were as soft and cuddly as buntings. The weather stormed and blew, but that was all right with me and I had the windows open almost all the time. It wasn't cold anymore, or if it was, I didn't feel it much because I was working so hard. It was only my hands, red as lobsters from all the cleaning stuff. I took one corner at a time. After a while, I managed to categorize and pile up boxes of antiques for Morgan to come and get, and I had seventeen black bags to be picked up by the St. Mary's by the Sea truck on Thursday. The floor was swept of clutter and scrubbed by yours truly with good old-fashioned soap and water.

Mrs. Dellaverna had been a doll, popping over with unexpected necessities: paper towels when I ran out, a box of matches, a phone book, and plenty of southern Italian dishes. I cranked up the old gas stove and kept it going, telling myself it would be that much easier to clean—and it was. The warm gunk peeled away easily. I spent hours and hours on that stove until it shone, and one day, while folding a big pile of giveaway from the dryer, I realized I was pretty much done with the inside of the house. Ceremoniously, I tied up the last bag and staggered to the porch with it, then looked around with satisfaction. The uncut grass blew in the breeze like an undulating river. Now all at once the rest of the trees seemed to have sprung open at once and my views of the neighboring houses and Twillyweed were obliterated.

I heard someone climbing up the path from the beach and bent over the railing. Why, it was Jenny Rose! And she had the little boy, Wendell, with her. Excitedly, I ran back in and put the teakettle on.

“Hello! Anybody home?” her clear voice called.

“Come in! Come in.” I ushered them in.

“Bless all who enter here,” said Jenny Rose as they crossed the threshold. “Look who I've brought! Hey! What's happened here? This is fucking great! Oops. Sorry, Wendell. I'm not to curse in front of you, am I?”

“I've been busy,” I agreed. “And I did a couple of big shops. How do you like it?”

“Hey, you could take a picture. Looks like a granny house back in olden times!” She'd brought scones and laid them out on the table, light and fragrant in a checkered cloth.

I couldn't resist. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “Where did you buy these? They're delicious!”

“I made them. Simple.”

“Mrs. Mooney lets you use her kitchen, then?” I set the table while they looked around.

“I helped myself this morning while she was deep in the arms of Morpheus. Take a deep breath, Wendell! Good salt air.”

Obediently, the boy took a deep breath in and held it.

“There's a good lad. All right, don't turn blue. You can let it out.” She twirled around. “I swear, you and I have certainly landed on our feet. We've got the two best views of the sea on Long Island.”

“I thought you said you were stuck in the cellar.”

“I talked Patsy Mooney into trading with me. Turns out she hated it up there. Just wait till you see my turret! A circle of windows! Got my easel set up already. I see you've a hearth, you lucky duck! Do you use it?”

“Not yet. I thought I'd better have the flue checked first. The chimney sweep will be here this afternoon. And then I'll need a cord of wood.”

“Oh, the chimney sweep will bring luck to the house, but already it's that cozy!”

“Thank you,” I said as I placed a vase of tulips on the table. There was some pound cake left over from yesterday's lunch and I laid the orange marmalade out with it. At the back of a cupboard I'd found honey—Noola's honey. Horrible how life goes on without you once you're gone.

Jenny Rose arranged Wendell with a big cardboard box and a plate full of buttons so he could play store. There was a basket of brightly colored embroidery threads and I let him have those as well. She flung herself onto a chair. “I'm beat.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I've made a good strong tea. This will cheer us both up.” I sat down across from her and lifted an eyebrow. She really did look tired. “You've been seeing too much of that Glinty, haven't you? You know, I think he dyes his hair.”

Jenny Rose pulled her knees up to her chest. “It's blue-black like that all over.”

The way she said it. “Don't tell me you've
fall
en for him!”

“Well, why not? He's a bit like me, if you must know. He comes from shit. Oh, I don't mean Deirdre and Brigid are shit. They raised me as best they could. But, you see, they're both sort of bats, aren't they? It's not like you, coming from a house with a mom and dad and kids at the table all eating together. A substantial home. I know it's hard for you to understand. But see, it just wasn't like that for me. I was fed in the pantry before they could shuffle me off to bed at eight o'clock so they could get on with it. To this day I stay up later than everyone just to stay up. It wasn't like I was in the way, but I was always aware that I'd been left behind. That I was someone else's, see? I know they loved me”—her eyes swam and she wiped her nose with her sleeve—“but I was always waiting for my ma to come and claim me.”

“Oh, don't!” I cried and tried to reach for her.

“No!” She pushed me off. Wendell, sensing trouble, looked up. Jenny Rose lowered her voice. “It's not that I want you to feel sorry for me. I just want you to understand.”

“I
know
how you must be feeling. But just
think
for a minute. We don't know anything at all about him except he's from a broken home! That's no reason to feel—”

“Aunt Claire, it's too late. Look. If you must know, it's that Glinty and me, when we're together, him and me, it's like we make one, see? Like he's got no arms and I've got no legs but together we're a complete person.”

“But, Jenny Rose, it's all too quick! You're a wonderful, complete person just as you are. You don't need a boy to make you feel—”

“I do.” She cut me short and eyed me fiercely. “He's the moon and stars for me, okay?”

My heart sank. I could say nothing.

She bit her lip. “And there's somethin' else.”

“What?”

“And this is between you and me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jenny Rose, with something fidgety in her hazel eyes, took a small green satin sack from her pocket. She checked to see that Wendell was distracted then tipped out two silver-rimmed buttons that seemed to move with undulating color. Baffled, I looked down at them on the plate and I remember thinking,
Hang on, those aren't buttons
.

And then she told me all about it.

On Sunday I went to early Mass. It was a fine, windy day. I parked in St. Greta's lot and was practically blown into the church, then found my way through the regular parishioners to the back. Newcomers have to be careful they don't take someone's pew; the devout are so often territorial. It was especially crowded and I soon saw why: It was the day of the May crowning, when the children who've recently received their first Holy Communion march in wearing their white outfits and veils and the last girl goes up to the statue of Our Lady and places a wreath of flowers on her head. It's lovely, especially the songs, which take you back to childhood. I settled into a dark spot. If ever my faith is tried, I just have to go on a Sunday and watch the family men who manage to get there every week, kids in tow, the backs of their necks bent in reverence at each appropriate moment—there is something so beautiful and true about them, like soldiers relieved from combat.
If it's not too much trouble, Lord
, I prayed silently,
lead me in the right direction in the Jenny Rose department. I don't seem to have the hang of it on my own. Help me know what to tell her, all right?
Then I posed the puzzle of the gems to the Almighty. You never know what might spark His interest—and at that point I didn't look at it as that much of a problem. After Communion, I sat back in the pew and watched the children, unable to be still any longer, acting up. Suddenly I blinked twice, for there was Morgan Donovan over on St. Joseph's side with his head in his hands. Hurriedly, I left by the side door so he wouldn't notice me. He was at least entitled to his private grieving time. Rain had come and gone, but now the wind tore at me. I opened my umbrella but gave up before it blew inside out. “Claire!” I heard Morgan call my name over the bells ringing and the wind. He caught up to me and loomed, moving back and forth above me.

“Hi,” I said, hoping my eyes didn't reveal how absurdly significant his nearness was.

“Hi, yourself.” He fell into step beside me. “I noticed your front headlight is out.”

“Thanks. I didn't see it,” I said. “I'll take it in this week.”

“No, you'll need to be weeding through the stuff in the cottage.” He raised his voice to be heard. “I'll take it to the marina for you and have Mr. Piet put one in.”

“I've been finding out that Mr. Piet can do just about anything. But, by the way, I've got quite a few boxes of valuable stuff for you to come pick up.”

“Help yourself to anything. It's so depressing in there the way it is.”

“Really? I was hoping you'd let me. You won't be sorry,” I promised, adding, “I didn't want to overstep my bounds.”

“So you're a good little girl,” he teased.

Was he flirting with me? “Not that good,” I grumbled, not sure where to look.

He laughed cheerfully. “There's enough wickedness in Sea Cliff. You'll soon find that out.”

Whirling bits of trash were moving past us down the steep hill, little toy boats in the gutter.

I ventured, “I saw that fellow Daniel. He was walking on the beach, crooning to a doll.”

He laughed. “Oh, he's harmless.”

“Is he?” I thought of his demented leer. “How can you be so sure?”

Morgan cleared his throat and squinted toward the sea. “Ah, that's a story. I wouldn't worry about him, though. He's afraid of his own shadow, Daniel is. He's even terrified of me! But there's something else I wanted to tell you … what was it?” He looked into my eyes, and for a moment the two of us just stood there and I went on that cloud height journey I always went on around him. He seemed to go there, too. It's always reassuring to me when someone else forgets what they're talking about. “Oh, yeah,” he said, returning to himself, “I saw Jenny Rose and Wendell bicycling and I thought,
There's a bike in the wee shed beside the cottage
. It's not very fashionable and it only has foot brakes, but the tires are fine.”

“I love foot brakes!”

“Good, then. I thought you might. Enjoy it. And what has Jenny Rose to say?” He pushed my hair off my face so he could see me.

“I think she loves the little boy,” I said, annoyed that I should be so moved by his simple, tender touch. “So that's great. She's coming with me today to Queens, to visit my parents.”

“
Ach
. She'll like that. What about Wendell?”

“We're bringing him with us.”

“Oh? Tell you what.” He pointed to his old black Saab. “You take my car and I'll run yours down to the marina this morning. You wouldn't want to be getting a ticket.”

“Are you sure?” I was doubtful.

“
Ach
, everyone uses it,” he said. “Key's under the front seat. Full tank of petrol.”

“In that case, it's a deal.” I handed him my keys.

“Cheerio.” He waved over his head and strode off down the road to my dear little green PT Cruiser, who would have him all to herself. I stopped to lose a pebble from my shoe and leaned against a lamppost.
Now why
, I asked myself crossly,
can't I find me a man just like that? Why?
I found the keys under the front seat just as he'd said I would—obviously the man had no common sense—then went to pick up Jenny Rose and Wendell.