by Nancy Garden
***
“What do you really want to do?” Liz asked Nora much later when everyone had left and after Ralph, who had become maudlin and belligerent again, had been given his evening pill and was finally sleeping.
Nora let herself tiredly down into her chair at the kitchen table and wrapped her hands gratefully around the cup of tea Liz had brewed for her. “Do?”
“You know,” Liz said, trying to sound casual, sitting down and sipping her own tea just as gratefully. “About the future?”
Nora closed her eyes. “Nothing,” she said after a long pause. “Right now I just want to sleep. I want to wake up and have Mama still be here and I want to give Father his bath and Mama hers and make them breakfast and put Mama back in bed and Father in his chair. And then I want to have a quiet cup of tea alone with Thomas. I want to weed the garden or bake bread or pick berries or make jam. And I want to work on my poetry and do some proofreading and make lunch. I want everything to be the same.” She smiled wistfully at Liz.
Liz tried to ignore the tightness in her throat and in her stomach, and concentrated on her firm belief that aside from what she herself hoped for the future, it would be dangerous for Nora to remain with Ralph. “I guess all that could happen,” she said slowly, “except for the parts about your mother, assuming your father can be controlled by the new pills. Is that what you really want?”
“Right now, yes, I think so.” Nora regarded Liz for a moment and then reached for her hand. “Liz, dear Liz, have I hurt you? Should I be adding that I want to go to your cabin and work in your garden and sit at your table and look out at the lake and—and lie next to you for a little while?”
Liz forced a smile. “I suppose that is what I wanted you to say, yes. But I also…” Abruptly, decisively, she stood. “Oh, hell, Nora, I’m worried about you, about what will happen to you when I go back to New York if you’re here alone with that crazy old man. I know he’s your father and I know on some level you love him, but you heard Dr. Herschwell say he thinks he’s seriously ill. I know they’re going to do some sort of evaluation of him, but suppose some night before that the pills don’t work or he refuses to take them and he—I don’t know.”
“Turns on me?” Nora asked evenly. “Accuses me of poisoning him? Tries to poison me?” She shrugged. “Any of those things could happen. But I’m stronger than he is, I think, and I do the cooking, and I…”
“That’s just it!” Liz exploded. “You do everything! You have virtually no life except drudgery. ” She stopped, seeing Nora’s eyes flash, realizing she’d gone too far.
“You too?” Nora said accusingly. “You too? I thought you understood. I thought you knew.” She turned away, her shoulders slumping.
Cautiously, Liz went to her, stood behind her without touching. “I know that you love the farm,” she said, “and your garden, and your quiet life. And I’m very, very aware that I’ve disrupted it.” She paused, then found herself almost pleading, and hoped she was pleading as much for Nora’s sake as for her own. “But there’s—oh, Nora, there’s so much out there in the world outside the farm, outside Clarkston, so much that you’re missing!”
“Did it ever occur to you,” asked Nora without turning, “that right now I might not be interested in what’s outside?” She turned. “Is a nun interested in what’s outside?”
“No,” Liz said, startled. “But you’re not…”
“That’s right, I’m not a nun. But you don’t have to be a nun to like solitude, to need it, to crave it. ”
“I know that, Nora, but…”
“It comforts me, sustains me,” Nora whispered. “It always has. And now…”
“Then,” Liz interrupted stiffly, “I guess you won’t need me, Nora, will you?”
Silence.
“Will you?”
When there was still no answer, Liz gathered up the sweater she’d brought in case the evening was chilly, felt in her pants pocket for her keys, picked up her overnight bag, and went out the door.
“I’m sorry,” Nora moaned, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, God, Liz, I’m sorry! It’s all changed so fast, my life, my world, my—myself. I didn’t mean…”
But Liz was already in her car.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Fighting tears, Liz drove back to Piney Haven, one hand on the steering wheel, the other occasionally dabbing at her eyes. She tried not to think, and when that proved impossible, she tried to tell herself Nora was upset, that she’d feel differently tomorrow.
But I don’t know that, she realized. And I really don’t know Nora either.
I don’t know her at all, maybe. Maybe I’ve been wrong about her, about how she feels.
Maybe I was wrong about Megan, too. And myself. Maybe no one knows anyone.
She pulled the car into its parking place in front of the cabin and sat there motionless in the dark, thinking, I’ll leave tomorrow. Or, damnit, as soon as the police are sure I didn’t kill Corinne—for Detective Morris had suggested, looking embarrassed, that “it might be a good idea” for her to stay in Clarkston till then, even though there was no real evidence against her. I’ll drive back to New York, stay with someone till the sublet’s up. I’ll forget Nora and this whole summer; I’ll sell the cabin, if Jeff agrees. Maybe Nora was just an interlude, a summer romance.
An almost romance; it never really…
In the distance, the telephone cut into her thoughts.
Thinking it might be Nora, could be Nora, must be Nora, Liz clambered out of the car and ran into the cabin, snatching up the receiver and barking, “Hello?” breathlessly, desperately into it.
“Well, hi, sis! Did you ever think about getting a machine for the cabin? I’ve been trying to get you all day and half the night. You okay?”
“Jeff. I—it’s a long story. What’s up?”
“Up? Nothing. Just wanted to confirm next weekend. We’ll be leaving early in the morning so we can do a little New England tour before we see you as well as afterward. I wanted to make sure it was still okay with you for us to come.”
“Come?” Liz asked stupidly, momentarily bewildered. Then she remembered and, groaning inwardly, said, “Oh, right. Um, sure. Yeah, sure. It’s fine.” Of course it is, she told herself; Nora’s not going to be in the picture, so why wouldn’t it be? Except that means I can’t go back to New York till later.
“Great.” Jeff paused a moment, then asked again, “You okay?”
Liz felt her eyes fill with tears. “Yes,” she said. “No.”
“Want to talk?”
“No.” She felt her voice falter and realized she was about to sob. “No, Jeff, I—I’ve got to go. See you next weekend. Goodbye.” Quickly, before he could reply, she hung up.
Almost immediately the phone rang again.
“Listen,” Jeff said, “I don’t believe you’re okay and I’m worried. What’s going on? Girl trouble?”
“Right,” Liz said tiredly, her tears abruptly staunched.
“Anything I can do? Advice? Tirades about the fickleness of women? Poisoned chocolates? Anything?”
Liz winced at “poisoned chocolates,” then had an absurd desire to laugh. “You’re a sweetheart,” she said. “But no. I’ll be okay.”
“Any gay bars in Clarkston?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You could always go into Providence. Find yourself a nice easy cutie, h’m?”
Liz laughed weakly. “Jeffie, how often do I have to tell you it doesn’t work that way for dykes? At least not for this dyke. Not enough testosterone or something.”
“That’s probably just as well. Wouldn’t work for this guy either. Sis, I’m sorry. I’m glad we’ll be there in a few days to distract you. Wait’ll you see Gus. He’s talking a blue streak now, and he’s all excited about seeing you.”
“Oh, come on, he hardly knows me! He can’t possibly remember me.”
“But he does. We’ve been talking you up. He wants to swim and go out in a boat and have bre
akfast outside and listen to frogs, all the stuff we used to do, remember? I didn’t tell him he’d have to pick blueberries, though.”
Liz leaned her head against the wall. “Good,” she said wearily. “But maybe he’d like picking them even though we didn’t.”
“Yeah, maybe. You’re right. I bet he might want to.” He paused. “Better?”
“Um-hm. Thanks.”
“Anytime, babe, anytime. See you soon, okay?”
“Okay. You need me to pick you up at the airport?” She found that now she was reluctant to hang up, to face the dark cabin alone.
“Nope. We’re renting a car.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re doing a New England tour first. That’s why you’re leaving tomorrow. Sorry. Momentary lapse.”
“No problem. Hey, want to come along? If you’re fancy free, why not, huh?”
Liz smiled bitterly. What would he think, she wondered, if she told him she didn’t feel she should till the police cleared her of murder? She hesitated, longing to tell him, to tell him everything, in fact. But then he’d probably get on a plane tonight without Susan and Gus, ready to do battle.
And there still was Nora.
Maybe. Was there?
“No, Jeff, that’s okay, Thanks, though. You guys should have your own vacation, en famille.”
“You’re part of our famille.”
“I know, Jeffie, but just no, okay?”
“Okay, but think about it. You can always change your mind.”
“Thanks.”
“Well—g’night, sis. Have a drink and go to bed. The sun’ll rise again tomorrow, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Jeff, I…”
“You what?”
“I love you.”
“And well you should. I love you, too, babe. ’Bye.”
“ ’Bye.”
Thank God for him, she thought, hanging up and climbing the stairs to her room. At least he’s always there.
Mechanically, Liz brushed her teeth, changed into the t-shirt she slept in, and crawled into bed. But she couldn’t sleep, so she went out to the dock and sat on its edge, watching the stars.
***
And Nora, sleepless at the farm, sat out by the garden, Thomas on her lap, staring up at the sky till dawn.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Stiffly, Nora stood, tipping Thomas, who mewed reproachfully, off her lap. She stretched and limped—her leg was cramped from sitting all night—into the house, where she put on her muslin apron and began heating water for the bath ritual. Her eyes felt gritty, her mouth dry and sour. Mechanically, she got out the bath things and, when the water was ready, carried them as usual into Ralph’s room.
“Good morning, Father.” She set down the basin and kissed his damp forehead; though she seldom did that, she felt this morning they both needed it. “Did you sleep?”
“No.” His voice was edged with pain and she saw that his eyes were red. She put a hand on his pillow; it was wet. Had he been weeping, then, all night? Shouldn’t the new pills have prevented that?
She knelt by his bedside, caressed his cheek. “I miss her, too,” she whispered. “I loved her, too. Can’t we mourn together?”
He pulled away from her. “You let that woman into our house,” he bellowed. “A viper in our midst. You let her influence you, take you away from me, from your mother, from your duty. You let her disrupt our schedule, our home. You let her destroy your mother. You know she…”
“Father,” Nora said sharply, standing, her throat aching with the tears she couldn’t shed in front of him, “listen to me. Liz Hardy did not poison Mama. Nothing could be further from her mind or her heart. She liked Mama. She tried to understand you. And she helped me, helped me enormously. She’s my friend, Father, or she was, before I foolishly turned her away. I wish…”
“Good! Good girl for turning her away. Not foolish at all,” Ralph said. “She’s evil, Nora, I could see that. She’s too interested in you. Why? Wants to get her hands on this place, you wait and see. But she can’t have it, because we won’t let her. Will we?”
“Oh, Father! Liz has no interest in ‘this place’ as you call it. Why would she? Why would anyone? The house is run down, there’s no electricity, no water…”
“The land, Nora, the land.” Ralph pushed himself to a sitting position. “I can see now that I made a mistake. Thought keeping the house the old way would protect the land, too. But it won’t. People want land now, not houses. I see that in those newspapers you get.”
Nora stared at him, aghast. “You mean—you mean you wouldn’t have electricity and water and—and everything because you thought that would protect the farm, keep it for youself? But you always said…”
His eyes gleamed. “Oh, it’s true I don’t hold with those newfangled things. But your old father has more tricks than that up his sleeve. I knew no one would ever want to buy a house that’s like this one; people want modern things. I knew you couldn’t sell it.”
Nora sat abruptly on the edge of his bed. “What?” she whispered. “You mean you kept the house like this to keep me from selling it?” she whispered. “Not because of its history the way Grandfather did? Not because of not wanting to pay more taxes? Just to keep me here?”
He seized her hand. “Oh, honey,” he moaned. “I knew I’d need you, that Mama would need you. We were already middle-aged when you were born. I had to think of the future. I knew we couldn’t face the end of life, growing old and sick, alone. And I was right, Nora, look what happened to Mama, to me!”
“You didn’t let me have friends, you didn’t let me go to the movies with my friends,” Nora said, her voice flat and emotionless. “You didn’t let me learn to drive. You’ve made me…” She got up, ignoring the bath-basin, ignoring his grasping hands, and ran out of his room ignoring his shouts, then his moans, ran through the kitchen, out of the house and blindly to the barn, where she flung herself into the Ford, thrust the key in the ignition, and spun the car around, scattering Thomas who’d been stalking a bird; she roared down the farm’s dirt road.
She slowed when she got to the main road. I will not, she told herself, go to Liz; I will not do that. I will not go running to her as if she’s some kind of saviour and I’m weak and helpless and God knows what.
But she drove to the lake anyway, to the plot of vacant land across from Liz’s cabin, and she sat on a rock near the shore, looking toward where Piney Haven was hidden by trees and smiling in spite of herself as she remembered Liz teaching her to swim and herself teaching Liz about the plants in her garden.
***
When Nora got back to the house, she spotted the Hastingses’ car and groaned.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hastings!” she said gaily, forcing a spring to her step when she went in the front door and strode into the kitchen. “What a nice surprise!”
Marie stood and took Nora’s hands. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “your father was so worried about you. If we hadn’t stopped in…”
“That’s water under the dam.” Swiftly, Charles pulled out a chair and seated Nora. “We’ve got him settled now. I’ll just go in and tell him you’re all right.” He patted her hand and left the room.
“Nora, dear,” said Marie, bending closer, her eyes fixing firmly on Nora’s, “your cousin, that nice Andrew Parker, came to see us last night and we had such a good talk with him. It’s so wonderful that he and his wife have offered to take you and your father in. He told us all about their huge house, which will be empty soon since their children are almost grown and anyway are away at school or college most of the time, and he said there are hospitals nearby in case your father should get sick, even a mental hospital, and they’d just love…”
“No,” Nora said automatically. But now it almost tempted her. If Father could go there, just Father…
“Nora, dear, listen to me. Your father’s not getting any younger. His mind is clearly going, what with that ridiculous accusation. Miss Hardy may be interfering, but she certainly isn’t a mu
rderess. What will you do if he really has a psychotic episode, which Dr. Cantor says is quite possible, and goes after you? Dr. Cantor says he’s to have an evaluation to find the right medication and other treatment, too, perhaps, but what if none of that works? You can’t risk being alone with him, Nora; you need protection and so does he. If the doctors think he can remain out of a hospital, it would be better for both of you to be with other people, don’t you see that? Naturally we’d be sorry to lose you, but…”
Nora tuned her out, watching the sun’s patterns on the floor. She drank the tea Marie brewed and handed her, but as Marie droned on, she silently recited Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare and Yeats, and wondered if she were losing her mind as rapidly as her father seemed to be losing his. For he was, of course; Mrs. Hastings was right; Dr. Herschwell had as much as said so. And the evaluation—Nora had forgotten about that!
“…So you see it will be easy to make the move and of course we’ll help. Charles will take care of explaining to your father; he’s already started. I’m sure Georgia Foley will be able to find a buyer for the farm. And Ralph…”
“No!” Nora almost shouted the word, surprising herself. Thoughts came in weary fragments: not Andrew, but Father? The farm—solitude. But—a prison, too. Thomas. Liz…
She shook herself, actually shook her shoulders, snapping herself back into reason, into politeness. “You’re being very kind, Mrs. Hastings, everyone is, but I don’t know yet what we’re going to do. I don’t know if we’re going to do anything. I can’t think yet. Please!”
Marie patted Nora’s hand. “Oh, I know, dear, I know. It’s all terribly hard, and I don’t mean to rush you. It’s just that your cousin has to go back soon, and, well, of course, I know it’s hard to go into someone else’s home when you’ve been running your own, but your cousin said they could even fix up part of their house as a little apartment, with a kitchen and everything, so you wouldn’t have to share. Two women in a kitchen is, I agree, a blueprint for trouble.”