Neither Present Time

by Caren J. Werlinger

  “Trust,” she sighed as she hung up. “Why is it so hard?”

  * * *

  Beryl waited for the bus, sweaty from her workout, her backpack slung over her shoulder. As she had promised Ridley, her workout routine was something she was determined to hang onto. I’m not stopping for anyone this time, she thought fiercely, though Aggie had not uttered the first hint that Beryl shouldn’t be doing this. Quite the contrary, Beryl thought she’d caught Aggie furtively eyeing her a few times when she was wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

  The cool October evening felt good on her flushed face. She was almost disappointed when the bus arrived.

  “Don’t you want a car?” Aggie had asked several times. “Or I could drop you off and pick you up.”

  “I’ve taken buses and trains my whole life,” Beryl reminded her. “I don’t mind. But thanks.” She knew Aggie’s offer was made only from a desire to be helpful, but Beryl found herself recoiling from anything that would tie her to someone else’s schedule.

  Once on the bus, she stared at the back of the seat in front of her, feeling confused by the jumble of emotions churning inside her. With Ridley, she had welcomed his nearness, his company – something she had never experienced with a man before. They had done nearly everything together in those weeks after she had left Claire, but now… She did little more than sleep at the mansion, often grabbing dinner out before she returned for the evening. Cory and Aggie welcomed her warmly whenever she got home, with no questions beyond whether she was hungry and how her day had been. They were perfectly fine with her hanging out with them or not.

  “It’s not them, it’s you,” said that voice in Beryl’s head.

  “That’s stupid,” she argued back. “I moved here to be with them.”

  “Yes, but,” the voice returned, “you want to be with them so much, you won’t let yourself be with them.”

  And she realized it was true. She was isolating herself deliberately. She felt like one of those fanatical monks or nuns who castigate themselves, punishing themselves to remove the desire, the temptation of precisely those things they most covet.

  Her evening at the theatre with Aggie last week had felt like some kind of dream. Not sure whether Aggie was looking at the evening as a date or as some kind of obligation thrust upon her by her aunt, Beryl had dressed carefully, trying to make a good impression, but don’t overdo it, she’d thought as she sorted through her limited choices. She was rewarded by the admiring look in Aggie’s eyes when she came downstairs.

  “Well, as Cory bought the theatre tickets, I insist on treating you to a birthday dinner,” she’d said. “Except you’ll have to pick the restaurant, and you’ll have to drive…”

  Aggie laughed animatedly and said, “Gladly.”

  The Ohio Theatre itself was beautiful, its ornate architecture and furnishings having been restored when the theatre was saved from demolition in the seventies. Sitting next to Aggie in the dark, Beryl caught whiffs of her perfume each time she leaned near to whisper something in Beryl’s ear. Beryl didn’t recall much of the show, but had a vivid recollection of the pressure of Aggie’s knee against hers and the way she reached over for Beryl’s hand when Maria sang “Somewhere.” Looking over at her in the dark, she could see tears running down Aggie’s face.

  Lying in her room later that night, she had listened to the sound of Aggie’s voice talking to Cory as she said good-night, the sound of her footsteps as she came upstairs and, more than anything, she had wanted to go to Aggie, hold her, kiss her, make love to her….

  Beryl almost missed her stop as she let her mind explore that scenario. Jumping up, she ran to get off the bus. Hitching her backpack onto both shoulders, she walked through Bexley’s streets, familiar now as twilight turned the sky to a Maxfield Parrish hue of rich indigos, the black silhouettes of the almost leafless trees standing out starkly against the saturated colors. She kicked through piles of crunchy leaves as she walked, enjoying the smells of autumn.

  As she entered the kitchen door, she heard an unfamiliar voice. She peered into the study where Aggie and Cory were seated with another woman.

  “Beryl!” Aggie jumped up as she saw her. “Come in. I want to introduce you to my mother, Debbie Warren. Mom, this is Dr. Beryl Gray.”

  Beryl came forward to shake hands with Debbie, who scrutinized her appearance. Embarrassed as she realized what she looked like in her sweats while Debbie smoothed her own meticulous – “and expensive,” Aggie would have added – attire, Beryl was nevertheless surprised that Aggie’s mother should be so… artificial, seemed the best word. “Hello, Ms. Warren.”

  “How do you do, Beryl,” Debbie said, though her strangely puffed lips had difficulty forming a “b”. “That’s kind of an old-fashioned name, isn’t it?”

  “This from the woman who allowed me to be named Agatha?” Aggie scoffed in disbelief. “Like that didn’t make my childhood difficult.”

  For some reason, Beryl found this hilarious, and had to turn away to hide her laughter.

  “Well, anyway,” Debbie said with a reproving glance at Aggie, “I’ll leave you with those pamphlets. You think about it, all right?” She was still speaking with a bit of a speech impediment. “Oh, I just heard that David Fredericks, you remember him, the dermatologist, has separated from his wife,” she said to Aggie as she picked up her purse. “You should call him.”

  She pressed her cheek to Aggie’s with a weird attempt to pucker her lips, and left.

  “She just had her lips injected,” Aggie explained apologetically as they heard the kitchen door close.

  “Oh.”

  Aggie shook her head. “Ever since Dad left her for a thirty-year-old, she’s been trying to look younger. It’s not pretty.”

  “Um, what about the dermatologist?” Beryl asked, still confused.

  Aggie rolled her eyes with a heavy sigh. “She refuses to see the obvious. She keeps trying to set me up with rich men.”

  “Oh,” Beryl repeated, her heart sinking to somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. The fantasy she’d so recently been enjoying on the bus suddenly seemed very foolish.

  “Sit down, Beryl,” Cory smiled.

  “What was that about pamphlets?” Beryl asked, hoping she didn’t sound too nosy.

  “Oh, she does this every month or so,” Aggie said.

  Winston, who had entered the room at the sound of Beryl’s voice, yowled once before jumping up into her lap as she sat cross-legged in her chair. Percival trotted over, and politely sat in front of Beryl, waiting for an invitation to jump up, which he did as soon as she patted her thigh. Beryl rubbed both of them as she asked, “Does what?”

  “Gives Aunt Cory information on various assisted-living facilities – places Mom insists she’ll be happier,” Aggie explained.

  “I thought that was all settled when you moved in with her,” Beryl said to Aggie, feeling very confused. “You’re not going, are you?” she asked, turning to Cory.

  “Of course not,” Cory assured her. “But it doesn’t stop the rest of the family from trying.”

  “Why are they so determined to get you to move out?” Beryl asked.

  Aggie offered Cory an apologetic smile and said, “Because they are determined to sell the house. I think I told you, it’s held in a trust that specifies that it is to remain Aunt Cory’s home for as long as she lives or cares to stay here. And they can’t break it. They’ve tried.”

  “It was the last thing my father did before he died,” Cory said. “I know he did it because he wanted my brother to be taken care of, but… I don’t know if he knew it would also become my jail.”

  * * *

  “Peters,” Helen finds the aged gardener working to cut back the peonies. “Have you seen Miss Corinne this afternoon?” she asks as she pushes a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead, the knees of her dungarees damp with mud.

  “Yes, miss,” he replies, doffing his cap respectfully and standing as straight as his arthritic spine will allow. “She came
through here about an hour ago, headed toward the garden.”

  “Thank you.”

  Helen searches the garden, transformed under her guidance. “There’s so much we could do,” she had said to Corinne last fall when she arrived. “If your mother doesn’t mind, I’d be glad to work with the gardeners.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Candace had complained when Corinne came to her mother with the idea. “How embarrassing, to have her grubbing about like some common laborer. We’ll be the butt of everyone’s gossip.”

  “She only wants to do is make things grow, after all the death and destruction she saw during the war,” Terrence had said to everyone’s surprise as he looked up from his plate. Often it was impossible to tell whether he was aware of the conversations around him. “Why should that be embarrassing?”

  With Mary’s blessing, Helen had undertaken to create a few formal spaces by moving and replanting what the grounds already had. “Doing it this way, it didn’t take any money,” she’d explained as she proudly showed off the neatly-trimmed yew and boxwood hedges laid out in geometric precision.

  “I feel like I’m in Europe,” Corinne had said in wonder as she gaped.

  “These are nice,” Helen agreed proudly, “but my favorite space is back here,” she said, leading Corinne back to a wilder, more serene part of the garden.

  Here, hidden paths lead to small surprises – little benches and tables moved from other areas of the garden, some limestone or granite, others made from bent wood and logs, creating private retreats where one could read or paint or just meditate.

  Wandering now, Helen finally finds Corinne at the grotto, a steady stream of water issuing forth from Zeus’s mouth into the limestone pool below. There, Corinne sits, sobbing as if her heart were breaking.

  “What is it, my love?” Helen asks in alarm, wrapping an arm around Corinne’s quaking shoulders. “What happened?”

  Corinne wipes her eyes and looks up at Helen. “The entire board was there. They won’t accept my resignation. They said if I resign, they’ll vote to sell the bank.”

  “Would that be so horrible?” Helen asks with a sinking of her heart.

  “Not in and of itself,” Corinne sniffs, “but if they sell, any buyer will do a detailed audit. They’ll discover what Father did. And what if I missed something? What if it’s not all paid back? I can’t. I just can’t do that to Mother.”

  Helen stands, wrapping her arms around herself. “What about you? What about us? Are we never to be allowed to live our lives?” She doesn’t mean to sound angry, but the injustice of the situation is tearing at her.

  “We were to leave next month for the Hamptons with my parents,” she reminds Corinne, “And from there we were scheduled to leave for Europe at last.”

  Corinne’s eyes fill with tears again. “I know,” she says bitterly. “But don’t you see what this could do to my family? I can’t –”

  “What I see is that you weren’t like this when we were in Washington,” Helen cuts in. “You enjoyed being free of them. You said so yourself. And now, you’re letting them pull you – pull us – into this quagmire they’ve created.”

  Corinne’s moist eyes blaze. “That’s unfair,” she protests. “No one planned –”

  Helen kneels in front of Corinne, taking her by the shoulders. “Come with me,” she pleads desperately. “We need to get away from here. Don’t you see what it’s doing to us? All you think about is that bank. We haven’t made love…”

  Corinne takes Helen’s hands in hers – hands that have become callused and stained by her months of work outdoors. “Can’t you be patient a little while longer? Another six months, and I should be able to –”

  Helen pushes to her feet angrily. “I’ve been patient! It’s always ‘just six months more,’ and in six months, something else will happen, Corinne! Another chain will be wrapped around you, keeping you tied to this place. I can’t… I just can’t,” Helen says, her voice cracking.

  She stumbles blindly down the path, dimly registering the sight of a skirt hem snagging on a rosebush deep within the garden as she storms away.

  When Corinne returns to the house much later, the maid, in reply to her inquiry, tells her that she has not seen Helen. Wishing to be alone, she makes her way upstairs, where she encounters Candace in the hall.

  “I’m glad to see that you’re living up to your responsibilities at last,” Candace says with a sanctimonious smile.

  Pushed past enduring, Corinne whips around and says, “You have no idea what my responsibilities are! If I weren’t living up to my responsibilities, you would have been out on the street long ago!”

  * * *

  “Do you really feel that way?” Aggie asked solemnly, leaning forward. “That this house became your jail?”

  Cory’s eyes slid out of focus as she looked back. “For a significant part of my life, it was. It wouldn’t let me go.” She blinked and looked around the study. “I love it dearly, but… my life is intertwined with the life of this house.”

  Beryl tilted her head. “Like Selina?” she asked, referring to the Godden book that had started her odyssey.

  Cory smiled. “More like Rolls. Selina never left because she liked to think the house couldn’t exist without her. Rolls got away for a while when he was young, but was pulled back by something he couldn’t resist, the place he always came back to.”

  “I think I’d better read this book,” Aggie muttered.

  Chapter 32

  Cory sat in her chair in the study, listening to the sounds of Aggie and Beryl moving about upstairs. Now that it was late October and the leaves had nearly all fallen from the trees, the morning sunshine came unimpeded through the leaded glass, softened further by the tiny bubbles and ripples in the hundred fifty-year-old windows. The golden light fell across an antique chess set, left in mid-game, sitting on the table between the wing chairs.

  A few nights ago, Cory had been talking about the games they used to play to pass the evenings. “No one plays games anymore,” she complained wistfully. “All people do is watch television.” Aggie had brought a television to the upstairs sitting room, but it was rarely on.

  “What would you like to play?” Beryl had asked, closing her book.

  “How about whist?” Aggie had teased.

  Cory turned to look at her sarcastically. “Even I’m not that old, Agatha smarty-pants. You read too much Jane Austen.”

  Beryl grinned, enjoying the loving banter that went on constantly between Cory and Aggie. I can just imagine Marian’s reaction if I teased her like that, she thought as she watched Cory go to the book shelves, and pull out a tall, thick book. Percival dutifully followed her to the shelves and back, like an honor guard.

  Bringing it to the table, she proceeded to unfold it. There, cleverly hinged together so that it could fold up compactly, was a full chess board, with tiny alcoves carved into its periphery to hold the chess pieces.

  “This is exquisite,” Beryl murmured, picking up one of the white knights. “Is this ivory?”

  Cory nodded. “I’m ashamed to say it is, but back then, ivory wasn’t considered to be the rare thing it is now.”

  “And the black pieces?”

  “Ebony,” Cory said. “All hand-carved. One of my uncles picked it up when he was in Africa. I’ve always loved this set.” She set out the pieces. “So, who’s up for a game?”

  Aggie declined, preferring to watch with Winston curled up in her lap as Beryl, who hadn’t played since she was a teen, was soundly beaten. “I can’t believe I didn’t see your rook waiting there,” she moaned as Cory checkmated her. What she didn’t mention was that the reason she hadn’t noticed the rook was because she’d been so distracted by Aggie, who had positioned herself so that she could watch the game from behind Cory. Every time Beryl glanced up, Aggie was watching her.

  “You have no idea,” Aggie so wanted to say, “no idea what it means to me… I can’t imagine Rachel being content to spend our evenings with my g
reat-aunt. I love hearing Aunt Cory laugh… and I love you.” She very nearly had to stuff her fist into her mouth to keep from saying it. But her eyes said all she couldn’t say aloud, and Beryl, feeling her own face get hot, knew she was growing to feel the same way.

  The games had become a nightly event since, though Beryl was getting better, and had won her first game last night. They had started a second game, but at last, needing to get some sleep, they had suspended the game, to be resumed this evening.

  Cory heard noises in the kitchen. Veronica had been delighted when Aggie had moved in over the summer and had been very pleased to meet Beryl when she moved in as well. “It’s nice to have young people in this house,” she declared.

  “Good morning, Miss Cory,” Veronica said cheerfully as she entered the study. “I thought I’d find you up and about already.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Brrrr, it’s cold in here!”

  Cory, wearing a heavy sweater with a wool throw over her lap, said, “We’re trying to keep the heat costs down.”

  Aggie and Beryl had turned off the valves to all the radiators in the rooms they weren’t using, diverting the steam from the ancient boiler in the cellar to the rooms they occupied, but it was still chilly. When the boiler kicked on, the house echoed with the clangs and bangs of the hot steam traveling through the pipes. “The house is talking,” Cory laughed. “Well, I wish it had a little less to say,” Aggie grumbled. Beryl still found herself jumping as the noises startled her.

  “Come on, let’s get some hot coffee inside you and warm up those old bones,” Veronica said now.

  “Who are you calling old?” Cory said, but Veronica just chuckled as she headed to the kitchen.

  By the time coffee was on, Aggie and Beryl were downstairs getting their own breakfasts.

  “What are you wearing?” Cory laughed as she saw Aggie wearing her most horrid orange Halloween sweater, bearing felted appliqués of jack-o-lanterns, black cats and witches.

  “Every teacher has at least one of these,” Aggie grinned. “Some have one for every season. Since Halloween is Saturday, we’re dressing up today.”