Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate for her to spend time with me, either. Not here.” My fingers find a button that’s come loose from the cuff of my jacket. I yank it free.

  “A child’s got to believe in someone. She chose you. Help her.”

  He walks away and I’m left with only the flickering shadows cast by the lone candle to guide me. His voice carries down the hall, staying with me, “that saved a wretch like me . . . ” I rest on one of the chairs, listening to the door in the next set of hallways finally slam closed, pinching the button between my thumb and forefinger. Then I spot something out of place, several feet in front of me.

  Lying on the floor where Mr. MacDonnell’s casket will soon be is the stem of the daisy tied around a lock of hair.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Brittle leaves skitter at my feet as I head across the parking lot. Though it’s a short walk from my cottage to Linus and Alma’s Victorian, I can’t help but pull the collar of my wool coat snug around my neck. Our New England autumn has settled in with a frosty vengeance, leaving my solitary birch naked and the hostas that ring it bedraggled and rotting.

  I enter the back staircase without knocking—Alma prefers it that way—and take the steps up to their living quarters. This is how it is each Sunday afternoon: I arrive promptly at one o’clock to help Alma with the final preparations for dinner, at which point she allows me a simple task, chopping carrots perhaps, and then sits me at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. While she stirs the gravy—there’s always gravy—I’ll listen to her talk of the week’s events and pretend not to notice the flask of sherry she keeps hidden in her apron pocket.

  As I enter the kitchen, the pungent aroma of ham and cloves assails my nostrils. I allow myself only shallow breaths. A second wave carries with it the succulence of sweet potatoes, brown sugar, nutmeg, and melting marshmallow. Alma is at the counter, grinding the pepper mill over a casserole dish, a carton of heavy cream beside it.

  “Clara, I hope you brought your appetite, because I’m making all your favorites,” Alma says, turning to smile at me. Today she’s wearing one of her better dresses, navy blue with white piping. I’ve never seen her in pants. She’s full-figured but could not be described as plump. In spite of her sixty-eight years, her hair still holds much of its color and has a glossy sheen from her Saturday-morning wash and curl. Though the skin around her neck has begun to relax and her once mahogany complexion has taken on an ashen pallor, her teeth betray nothing of her age. They are large and white, mesmerizing when she speaks. I am always humbled by them.

  “My grandmother’s buttermilk biscuits, sweet potatoes, and some of that green bean casserole you like so much, in the cream sauce,” continues Alma. “I have carrots, too. You can pick at them, I know how you are. And for dessert, I made my mother’s apple pie.”

  Long ago, I stopped bringing contributions to our Sunday dinners. The cookies from Beech Hill Bakery were always put aside in favor of Alma’s rum raisin cake (quick, while it’s still warm; we’ll save those cookies for tomorrow, if you don’t mind). Wine would never do, as Linus is a confirmed teetotaler. Instead, when my outdoor garden is lush, I’ll bring her a bouquet for her table. She likes that.

  This is Alma’s show, and her Victorian kitchen is the stage on which she shines. With its original cherry cabinets and bead-board backsplash, a vintage O’Keefe and Merritt stove with two warming drawers and six burners, and a matching cobalt blue Crosley Shelvador refrigerator, it’s as traditional as Alma herself. She takes a copper pot from its hook and motions me over to her grandmother’s kitchen table, where a pot of tea is already steeping on its lace doily, her mother’s china cup at the ready.

  “It smells wonderful,” I say. I’ve never told her I’m rarely hungry, that food holds no real appeal for me. It would sting her to the core, and she’s already suffered enough for one lifetime. “What can I do?”

  She hands me the butter dish and two trivets. “Put these on the table?”

  My eyes need to adjust from the cheerful kitchen to the dimness of the dining room. Sconces hang on either side of the sideboard, barely illuminating the walnut wainscoting and cranberry velvet drapes. The chandelier is not yet on. In another house, I would assume the poor lighting was an attempt to mask dust and cobwebs, but in Alma’s home, the scent of lemon oil is a constant. If I were to touch the chair rail, I know my fingers would be slick with it. There are five place settings instead of the usual three; the cabinet that holds her good china is half-empty, the contents dotting the embroidered tablecloth.

  “Who’s joining us?” I ask Alma, taking the tea she offers and settling at the kitchen table.

  “The Reverend Greene is coming and he’s bringing his elderly mother, visiting from Elizabeth City, North Carolina. She must be near eighty-five and took the Greyhound by herself. Imagine that?”

  Alma’s back is to me, so she doesn’t see the tea slosh my saucer. I haven’t seen Reverend Greene in the two weeks since Mike visited me in the basement. I wonder what Mike has told Reverend Greene about his Precious Doe, about me. I cup the tea, chasing the chill from my hands, and listen to Alma whisk the gravy: it smells of butter, brown sugar, and cider.

  I didn’t do anything wrong. Silence is not a crime. The child’s life had been one long hell-storm and then it was over in a moment of terror and violence. But finally over. Nothing any of them did after the fact could help the little girl; she’s dead. Probably the only kindness she was ever shown came afterward: the public outcry in the newspapers; the donations that poured in for a reward to track her killer; the funeral Linus gave her attended by nearly all of Brockton’s and Whitman’s finest—police, firefighters, clergy, every stripe of politician. Save Linus and Alma, I wonder how many of these people, if they’d seen her being slapped in the produce aisle of Shaw’s, would have stopped to help her. Mine were probably the only dry eyes at her service; only I seemed aware death was her release. Life is suffering. They think Doe is somehow still attached to this world, but her life is over. I didn’t do anything wrong by remaining silent.

  “Clara, honey. Clara?” Alma has stopped her whisking and is staring at me. “Would you get the front door? I believe that’s the reverend and Mrs. Greene.”

  I wind my way out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the grand foyer, just as the doorbell sounds again.

  “Why hello, Clara,” says Reverend Greene from behind a woman hunched over a wooden cane. She’s a tiny person, seemingly about to topple over in her sensible shoes and heavy woolen coat. A plush brown hat, attached with hairpins positioned above each ear, matches the gloves that do nothing to hide the gnarl of her fingers. Below her proper collar, a single strand of pearls rests at her throat. Raising his voice and grasping his mother’s shoulders, Reverend Greene says, “Mama, this is Clara Marsh. She’s Brother Bartholomew’s child.”

  “No.” Reverend Greene knows this isn’t true. “I’m Linus’s assistant.”

  “No matter,” says Mrs. Greene as her son takes her left elbow and offers his other arm for her to push herself up into the house. She steadies herself, in spite of the persistent tremble besieging her body. “We’re all God’s children and that’s what counts.”

  Before I’ve a chance to explain, Alma rounds the bend and calls out, “Come in, come in.” Gathering her hands into her apron and wiping quickly, she extends both to Mrs. Greene. “Mother Greene, we’re honored you’re joining us for Sunday dinner. The reverend here is like family to Linus and me, so please make yourself at home.”

  In one smooth gesture, Alma embraces Mrs. Greene and slips the old woman’s coat from her shoulders. For a moment I wonder how the buttons were undone, but there is no time to dwell; Linus has filled the room.

  “Israel, welcome,” Linus says as he clasps Reverend Greene’s hand in his own. He then turns to Mrs. Greene and hovers in a slight bow, eyes downcast. “And this must be Mother Greene.”

  At first I think Mrs. Greene is overwhelmed by the convergence of all of
us in the foyer, her hesitation a sign of wear from a long bus ride north, until she pulls her hand from Linus’s and removes the glove, catching his hand again in both of hers.

  “You are surrounded by spirits,” she breathes.

  Linus scans her face but doesn’t speak, a tired smile hovering at his mouth.

  “They are all around you.” Her left hand arcs across Linus’s shoulders as if sprinkling him with holy water. “They like you; they feel safe in your presence. They think you’ll show them the path home.”

  Reverend Greene pulls at his mother, urging her toward the kitchen. “Mama, you’ve had a long trip. Maybe you need a glass of water.”

  We all follow, Alma looking toward Linus, and he at the floor. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mother Greene?” Alma asks, her thumb plucking the corner of her apron pocket. I watch as a stitch, then two, are pulled free. “I’ve got a pot all ready. Or a glass of lemonade instead?”

  Linus trudges over to the kitchen table and slides out the head chair, the one with the generous seat and cushioned armrests, while Reverend Greene eases his mother down. Alma hurries to the stove, churning the skin from the top of the gravy before it can harden into unsavory bits. I don’t know where to go.

  “Tea would be lovely, dear,” says Mrs. Greene, unpinning her hat and folding her gloves into it. “Thank you.”

  I reach for them, grateful for something to do, as Linus pulls Reverend Greene away to the sitting room. I head to the foyer closet, listening to Linus’s bass and the whisper of Reverend Greene’s response, but I can’t make out the words. Wandering back toward the kitchen, I linger over familiar photographs lining the hallway. They are all of their son, Elton, from infancy through high school graduation, an eerie montage of the capricious nature of life. I squint at the boy in his cap and gown; his eyes, aglow from the camera’s flash or perhaps accomplishment, show no prescience of the aneurysm that would burst within his brain days later.

  When I step into the kitchen, the old woman’s eyes are upon me. Though she moves slowly, shaking sugar crystals across the tablecloth while fixing her tea, her eyes are spry.

  “Did I take your seat, dear?” She gestures toward my empty cup and saucer, which someone moved aside.

  “No, not at all.” I sit across from her, though still close enough to notice the familiar odor of mothballs and lavender splash. Many of my clients use the same.

  “Mother Greene,” Alma says as she sets a tray of malt crackers and block of sharp Wisconsin in front of the old woman, “I hope you don’t mind the loose-leaf variety. I can get you a tea bag if you prefer.”

  “You know, all the ladies in Elizabeth City come to me to read their tea leaves,” says Mrs. Greene, rolling one of the pearls at her throat between a thumb and forefinger. “They’re all looking to find true love, see how many babies or grandbabies are in the future. Money, too. I don’t charge them, course, but they usually leave me some sort of something. A banana bread or pork chops. Some such. Most slip me a little cash to supplement my widow’s pension, but they don’t have to.”

  “Oh, Mama,” says Reverend Greene as he and Linus enter the kitchen.

  Mrs. Greene drops her necklace, and I expect to hear a thud when it strikes her collarbone. She braces herself against the table to turn slightly, glowering in her son’s direction. “Israel, you know God blessed me with the gift. I told you the night you met Dorothea she would be your wife within the year, and thirty years later I told you to get her to a doctor.” She turns back to face Alma and me. “She died two weeks later when her heart gave out. Been almost fourteen years now, isn’t that right, Israel? God rest her soul.”

  In the silence that follows, Reverend Greene fishes in his pants pocket for the wedding band he keeps there while Mrs. Greene, her back returned to her son, slurps her tea. The rhythm of Alma’s whisk clicking against the pan lulls me away from the tension.

  “Can you commune with the deceased, Mother Greene?” Alma asks, her eyes never straying from her gravy.

  “I can.”

  “Do you need tea leaves—”

  Linus starts, but she silences him with a look.

  “Do you need the leaves to see, Mother Greene?” Alma whips the gravy, click, click, click.

  “I do not,” says Mrs. Greene, replacing her teacup in its saucer, her eyes on Alma.

  “Can you commune with my son?” With her free hand, Alma wipes at her cheek. It’s almost certainly sweat from her brow, or a wayward splash from the whisk. I’ve never seen Alma weep.

  “I cannot,” said Mrs. Greene, folding her hands into her lap. “Your son is at rest. Only those who cannot find their way to the next world, who are trapped still in this one, appear to me. They are tortured souls. Your boy was at peace when he died, filled up with the love you and your husband gave him. You were wise to let him go on.”

  Alma turns to Mrs. Greene. Lips quivering, teeth firmly clenched, she nods. “Thank you, Mother Greene. Thank you.” I avert my gaze.

  “But your husband here,” Mrs. Greene says, pivoting in her seat to see Linus, “he is surrounded by spirits looking for someone to show them the path home. You know that’s right, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother, I do,” says Linus, patting her shoulder. “Everyone wants to go home.”

  Mrs. Greene cackles, a joke she shares with Linus, who also smiles. I look to Reverend Greene and am reminded of the teenagers from my youth. The ones who squirmed whenever their mothers chaperoned a school field trip, as if the unconscious caresses and homemade lunches were a humiliation. I especially disliked those students.

  “And you, Miss Clara,” Mrs. Greene says, turning to face me. Her head quivers atop her neck, her eyes unblinking. Though I know these are signs of Parkinson’s disease, as is the dementia she appears to have succumbed to, still she appears otherworldly. “I’ve peeked into your teacup. There are things you need to know.”

  The odor of cloves clogs my throat. The ham is perched on the cutting board, waiting for Linus and his knife. The scent that’s filled my nostrils has settled into an ache, pulsating deeper and deeper into my head. Reverend Greene fumbles his hands within his pockets, and I can just make out Alma poking the carrots, watching me.

  “No, thank you.” I can’t imagine how I’ll eat, reminded of the clove potpourri my grandmother kept in her armoire.

  “Clara, wouldn’t you like to know?” Alma asks before turning her attention back to her guest. “Do you see a man in her future, Mother Greene?”

  “There are two men in your cup.” Mrs. Greene’s eyes are firm, even as her body trembles. “Mind my words, dear, both will lead you to danger. One will die trying to save you and the other trying to kill you.”

  Reverend Greene reaches for his mother’s shoulders, shaking her gently. “Don’t say such things, Mama.”

  “She needs to hear,” Mrs. Greene hisses, watching me.

  I inhale deeply the scent of cloves, of my childhood, my head throbbing in response. Many of the old women who’ve wound their way along the mourning rooms below this kitchen have wanted to share their prophecies with me. Near the end of their lives, they all speak to their god.

  “And the little girl, Lord have mercy, that lost little girl.” Mrs. Greene places a hand to her heart, her eyes looking past me. “She thinks she’s found a home in you.”

  I turn to Linus, but he’s focused on Mrs. Greene. I imagine he told Reverend Greene about Trecie and that’s how the old woman has come by her “gift.”

  “No one should know the pain she’s felt,” said Mrs. Greene, balling her skirt in her fist. “You’re the only peace she’s ever known in her little life.”

  “Mother Greene,” Linus says, patting her arm. “Clara will see the girl through. She’s agreed to help. It’s all been arranged.”

  Tears fill the crevasses lining Mrs. Greene’s face, shifting course as she grimaces. She shakes off Linus, straining across the table, grasping for my arm. The strength of her shrunken hand startles me. I’m more use
d to the submissive touch of my elderly clients. “She will bring sorrow into your life.”

  “Mother Greene,” says Linus. “Clara will take care of the girl. It’s all in God’s hands.”

  “But your girl’s in danger,” says Mrs. Greene, pleading with him.

  Linus reaches up and swipes away her tears with his thumb. “Fear is the underbelly of evil; it’s how the devil gets his power over us, you know that. Our faith must be stronger than our fear.”

  Without intending to, I snatch my teacup from Mrs. Greene, snapping free the handle as I do.

  “My goodness, Clara, you’re bleeding!” Alma rushes toward me with a dish towel, wrapping my finger within it. It’s just a scratch, but her cup is ruined. Her gaze falls to the broken bits of her mother’s china—oh!—and then back to my finger. “That’s okay.”

  Before I can apologize to Alma, tell Mother Greene of my intention to send Trecie to her son’s church filled with other children in need of after-school activities, my cell phone rings. I pull my fingers away from Mrs. Greene and Alma both.

  “Clara, it’s Ryan from Brockton PD. I got a body for you.”

  “Just a minute.” I step out of the kitchen as Alma helps Mrs. Greene from her seat, hiding my hand within my jacket pocket.

  “Mother Greene,” I hear Alma say in her kindest tone. “Why don’t you rest on our bed before dinner? You must be exhausted after your trip.”

  While I’m speaking to Ryan, Alma half carries Mrs. Greene in a one-step down to the other end of the hall toward the staircase. Alma turns to me, frowning, her brow curdled. I don’t try to interpret her expression; I’ve never been fluent in the language of another’s body. Instead I focus on Ryan, a man who requires no translation.

  “Got assigned a well-being check,” says Ryan. “Neighbor called to say they hadn’t seen Charlie Kelly in a couple a days, newspapers piling up outside. Died watching TV. Must’ve been something good, ’cause he’s not wearing his Underoos.”

  I ask for an address and am about to hang up when Ryan catches me.