The Girl in the Garden

by Melanie Wallace

  I can’t keep them here much longer, Mabel finally tells Iris over the phone. Iris doesn’t ask why Mabel won’t bring them into her home: like Roland, she knows Mabel’s reasons, and Iris doesn’t consider them sane or insane, justifiable or indefensible: the two women have, to the extent each has been able, shared with each other certain confidences regarding their private lives, and Iris neither judges Mabel nor prompts her to continue; indeed, Iris doesn’t say a word, and Mabel listens to the silence on the other end of the line. When she finally takes a deep breath and begins, Mabel doesn’t insist, as Iris knew she wouldn’t, You owe me, I need this favor, but both of them understand it’s finally come to this.

  Please take them in, just for the winter, Mabel says.

  Well, Iris eventually responds, I’ll have to send Duncan. Just, she adds lamely, to see if she’ll suit.

  I thought you might, Mabel replied in relief.

  Duncan

  THE GIRL WAS nothing like Claire, but of course Duncan could not help thinking of Claire as he drove back from Mabel’s, where, on the pretext of interviewing June, he’d simply made sure that the girl didn’t look like Iris’s daughter and wasn’t in temperament or character the way Claire had been at June’s age, or ever. Why Iris would agree to take the girl and her baby in—if, in Iris’s words to him, the girl would suit—was, to him, a mystery. Especially as Iris would house them in the cottage on her property, which cottage—so far as Duncan knew—no one had ever stayed or lived in except Claire, who had claimed it for her own at fourteen. No, he corrects himself, thirteen. Only thirteen then, and already unnervingly self-sufficient, determinedly on her own and simply undismayed by Iris, who was unwilling to have anything to do with anyone, including her own daughter, who hadn’t minded at all—indeed, Claire had been the one to decide that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She also hadn’t minded that she’d been entrusted to Duncan, whom Iris had chosen to be her lawyer and, by extension, Claire’s. If Duncan had been amazed by his first client, who happened to be Iris and who’d selected him precisely because he was new to town—which meant he had no connections with anyone in Iris’s life, and no past in terms of the area—he also was shocked by the size of the monetary estate she placed in his hands. And shortly thereafter by Claire, whose nonchalance at being left to her own devices to get through life simply astonished him.

  Claire relished the freedom of bringing herself up; she’d moved into that cottage of her own accord and acted as though every other thirteen-year-old did exactly what she was doing, living without parental guidance of any sort, and as though it were entirely reasonable that she should fend for herself. If Claire had any misgivings—which she never appeared to have—she never said. And if she mentioned her mother, Claire always did so succinctly, matter-of-factly, and always referred to her as Iris; and although she never spoke about Iris ruefully or resentfully, neither did she speak of her with any fondness. Claire was—and so far as Duncan knew, remained—in this regard and most other ways, profoundly circumspect.

  She’d floored Duncan by the way she was able to take everything in stride, including him. If she’d ever been shy, she wasn’t at thirteen or thereafter; and if she’d ever had childish interests, she no longer did by the time she became his ward—Claire’s word, which she pronounced upon their first meeting without a hint of irony, just smiled as she spoke it before explaining that, burdensome as he might find certain responsibilities, Iris couldn’t and wouldn’t attend parent-teacher meetings, arrange for appointments with—never mind accompany her to—a doctor or dentist, write notes that would excuse her from school if she was sick, or evince the slightest interest in the grades she, Claire, would receive. And so, Claire had continued, these duties would fall upon Duncan’s shoulders, but she wasn’t clear as to what paperwork Iris needed to sign to allow him to stand in Iris’s stead, and Iris certainly wasn’t going to ask. Duncan, confronted by the sight of this small, dark-eyed, very slight eighth-grader who could have passed for an elf dressed in overalls and sneakers, did his best to show nothing of his astonishment at what she had to say and the way she spoke to him, as though she were his equal in age and had known him all her life, and as though this situation accorded perfectly with the natural order of things. He told her that Iris had directed him to draw up the necessary papers concerning his responsibilities in regard to Claire, and that he was in the process of doing so. Claire thanked him for taking into account her concerns, shook his hand, took her leave, and left him wondering how any child could be as reasonable, confident, and self-effacing as this one.

  He’d never come up with an answer. Couldn’t even now.

  No: June wouldn’t remind Iris of Claire. But surely her mere presence would disturb. Not that this would be his problem; Duncan had to take Iris at her word, even though he suspected that something he couldn’t fathom was behind her decision to shelter a perfect stranger, one with a baby, at Mabel’s request. Iris told him only that she could use a bit of help—which he couldn’t refute, although it was the first he’d heard of such a thing—and, of course, it made perfect sense to him that, if she indeed needed help, Iris would rather have a stranger from nowhere than anyone from town. For, without ever saying as much, as far as Iris was concerned no one from town, actually no one from within a fifty-mile radius, could be expected not to spread the word that he or she had actually come face to face with Iris. Duncan knew Iris wasn’t wrong; after all, she’d held herself aloof, remained a recluse for so long now that rather than being forgotten she’d become legendary, both because of her withdrawal from the town and because of the outrageous circumstances of her husband’s death. Immediately following his demise and the beginning of her self-imposed isolation, Iris was forgiven, but later—when it became apparent she was going to continue shunning any and all contact with the outside world, at least so far as anyone and everyone knew—she was resented.

  Except, of course, by Claire. Who, vacationing with Iris at Mabel’s, had been left behind by her mother of a Saturday morning when her father did not appear as expected and couldn’t be reached by phone. Iris borrowed Mabel’s car and drove back to her home alone, only to discover his body. Iris didn’t tell Claire that her father was dead, just told her there was a problem and that Claire was to remain with Mabel for the rest of that summer. Which she did, and then stayed on through that school year while, unbeknownst to Claire, Iris withdrew from local society and hired workers from elsewhere to erect a stockade—Claire’s word—around the property’s perimeter, then brought in carpenters and cabinetmakers (also from elsewhere) to gut and redo the house to Iris’s satisfaction, most offensively (in the town’s view) removing the windows and door that had looked onto the street and walling in the house’s exterior on that side. Which was, Claire-at-the-age-of-thirteen later told Duncan—without a hint of criticism of her mother’s decision to do so—the outward manifestation, a metaphor if you like, she elucidated, of Iris’s resolve to turn her back on the world. Which, she added, I have to respect.

  Respect: this again was the justification Claire gave Duncan when she announced that she was moving into the cottage to live on her own. You’re thirteen, he’d protested. Well, she responded, her dark eyes holding his, the house I returned to isn’t the house I grew up in: the kitchen and dining room aren’t where they were, the appliances are all new, every piece of furniture was removed and, if replaced at all, substituted with Mission pieces; what had been my bedroom is now a sort of reading-and-sewing room, there are French doors that look onto the garden, floor-to-ceiling windows where there were walls, and walls where there were windows; there’s a fireplace where there wasn’t any, closets where there were none, no closets where they’d been, a pantry that never was, wainscoting with painted walls rather than wallpaper, and plank floors instead of linoleum. Iris has done everything she can to erase every trace of my father, of the life she had with him; even the sod’s been stripped from what had been the lawn, the flower beds uprooted, and Ir
is probably intends to spend the rest of her life designing a garden of her sole creation. My presence in that house violates everything she’s managed to do. After all, I’m their spawn—

  Children are not spawn—

  Spawn is most certainly the word Iris would use, Claire told him with a bemused look of pity.

  I doubt that.

  Duncan, she sighed, I’m the only person in the world Iris has to see, and she’d rather look at a goldfish. Believe me.

  And he’d decided not to argue. Claire flustered him: he knew nothing about thirteen-year-old girls, and thirteen years had passed since he’d last been that age himself. He arranged some papers on his desk, gave himself a moment to think. Your grades better not suffer, he warned. Understood, she replied. And then appeared at his office every Friday to collect her allowance, which sums she managed and, to his wonder because he’d never prompted her to do so, gave him an accounting at the end of each month as to what she spent and why. She never asked for more than what she received, and from those weekly payments saved and bought what she’d decided she most wanted: a professional’s camera.

  Duncan had thought about Claire obsessively those first few years after she’d left town. It took a long time for him to erase her from his mind upon waking, a longer time to adjust to the fact that she was not going to return. He eventually reconciled himself to that loss—yes, he considered her absence his loss—and eventually his regret diminished, although today, now, because of the interview with June, who bears no resemblance whatsoever to Iris’s daughter, he’s overwhelmed by nostalgia for that exacting way Claire looked and spoke, for her no-nonsense sureness of who she was and who everyone around her was. He has no idea of what Claire looks like anymore; time must have changed her outwardly, perhaps softened her body’s compact angularity, perhaps faintly etched lines about her eyes and mouth, but he knows it would not have changed her within: Claire’s determination to do precisely what she wanted or needed, a trait that kept him and everyone else—Oldman excepted—who came in contact with her off-balance and often taken aback, would not have slackened or softened. In the fourteen years since Claire left, there had been the occasional phone call—her voice the same, surprisingly deep for someone so physically slight, her tone even, as always, perfectly matter-of-fact—to inform him of a new bank account number or phone number and address, Claire never beginning the conversation with Hello but just saying his name as though it were a sentence. And then pausing, waiting for him to do whatever he had to, clear his throat, cover the mouthpiece and excuse himself if in the middle of a conversation with a client or, as more often happened, with someone who’d just dropped in to fill him in on what they’d seen or heard that day, maybe put an elbow on his desk and rest his forehead against the palm of his free hand to steady himself before greeting her with Hello, Claire. And then she’d convey whatever information she’d called about, and Duncan would tell her how the estate stood despite knowing that Claire wasn’t interested in those details. She never asked after Iris, and he never mentioned her: he knew that Claire touched based annually with Iris somewhere around that occasion of out-with-the-old-and-in-with-the-new and that those calls had nothing to do with holiday wishes, for Iris spurned any interest in holidays and had celebrated none since her husband had died. What mother and daughter spoke of, Duncan couldn’t begin to guess, but he suspected that Claire did not talk about herself and that Iris did not ask, that the How are you? on both sides was superficial and less important than discussing—curtly—the weather. Claire spared Duncan such small talk during her infrequent calls. But, after telling him whatever she needed to inform him of, and after listening to whatever he told her, she invariably ended with: So, Duncan, are you spoken for yet. She never inflects the question. He never answers truthfully No—for then she might come back—or Yes—for then she would never. He only ever answers, in a cautionary, admonishing tone, by saying her name.

  Claire.

  He hasn’t spoken to her in more than a year now. He assumes Iris will not tell her about the girl during their more or less annual phone conversation. He will not call Claire: he doesn’t. And, if she calls, he won’t breathe a word about Iris’s decision to take in the girl: it is not his place. Besides, Claire won’t ask about Iris: she doesn’t. And he hasn’t mentioned Iris to Claire since the month after Claire moved herself into the cottage from the house in what she called Iris’s compound and had become a fixture in his office, arriving unannounced almost daily to curl up in a corner armchair and do her homework, intent upon whatever it was she was reading or writing, not unmindful of but ignoring the fact that her presence made him uncomfortable because he still hadn’t the slightest idea of how to deal with her. For she rearranged his senses, disquieting him, when she looked up and studied him from time to time with those liquid dark eyes, knowing he was already hiding behind his role of guardian because he couldn’t be anything but and didn’t trust her to be or act the age she was. In response, he’d sometimes ask how Iris was rather than inquire about school or whether Claire thought it was going to rain, any chitchatty question to which the answer wouldn’t matter; and for a while Claire tolerated the question, always responding Perhaps fine, perhaps not. He hadn’t exactly expected Claire to tell him that Iris had objected to Claire’s move or at least noticed that Claire was living on her own, but the day came when Claire—in answer to his question as to how her mother was faring, that last, final time he ever asked—looked at him in mild exasperation, considered him the way a weary teacher might a rather dull but somewhat droll student, and remained silent. He shuffled a few papers on the desk in front of him and then stilled his hands and met her gaze, saying firmly: I asked how your mother is.

  Cocooned, came her answer.

  Meaning?

  Meaning exactly that. She’s wrapped around herself and hanging by a thread. Which is the way she’ll always be. I don’t know why you insist on asking.

  I’m normal, he told her peevishly. Normal people usually try to be polite by asking normal questions—

  And make the mistake of thinking they’ll get normal answers. You’re asking about Iris. You can’t seriously think I’d say, Oh, she has a headache today or Fine, thank you, but really sorry she can’t drop by, she’s on her way to the hairdresser’s or Really happy to have gone away last weekend and seen her old friends. There isn’t a platitude in a thousand that can be said about Iris.

  Claire, you could have just said: The same.

  Duncan, she responded, I’m not good with generalizations. They obscure specificity.

  What?

  The truth, Claire said. Which I assume might interest you, as a lawyer.

  Well, as a person, I’m interested in niceties.

  Well—Claire returned, perfectly mimicking his inflection—I don’t have any use for them. Or for illusions.

  And that, Duncan knew, was what had drawn her to photography: for, as she once told him, photographs aren’t and can’t be anything but what they are, a slice of truth captured in a split second, which truth has neither past nor future despite the questions it might raise about both. He drives along the coastal highway the old-timers call the old post road, a two-laner that’s seen better days since the inland highway with its four lanes—a few years back, expanded to six—left this route mostly untraveled. He’s always loved this drive north, hasn’t taken it for years, but as he is giving himself over to his memories of Claire—not that he could stem that tide if he wanted—he finds himself gladdened that they’ve piqued his nostalgia for this route his grandparents always took to their summer rental with Duncan riding along in their plush sedan, which had mounted vases and a braided silk rope strung across the back of the front seat. He rolls down the window now, braces against the rush of cold, inhales deeply, recalls his thrill at the thought of every vacation in that house on that cliff lasting an entire month, his grandparents always staying two weeks before his parents arrived, and then the family remaining together for another two. It’s the
one constancy from childhood he remembers, being in love with this drive and those vacations and with the cursory visits to the town beyond the summerhouse, which town he—or so it strikes him now—chose to live in long before he ever had any knowledge of his decision.

  The tires thump-thump—as they did back then—across the seams separating perfectly identical spans of concrete, and he finds the sound soothing. He drives close to the center line to avoid stretches of eaten-away shoulders, slows over frost heaves and cracks and around potholes, follows meandering climbs and dips that curve and spoon into the shape of the coast, drives toward a horizon he will never reach. A silver strip illuminates earth’s end below the unbroken graphite sky. To his left, beyond the empty opposite lane, expanses of marsh and bog bordered by forests, and beyond the forests, he knows, clearings of pastureland, the occasional horse or dairy farm, here and there plowed fields still sown in late spring for corn and potatoes, old farmsteads lived on by those who’d inherited them and kept to the ways of raising horses and cows and crops. To his right, the ocean, spilling into rockstrewn coves, the occasional sandy beach, glowering beyond the dunes and beneath cliffsides topped by massive homes in which three generations, more, used to live, homes with columns and wide porches, gables and widows’ walks and cornices carved to reveal spandrels of leaping fish or shamrocks or anchors, their trim always painted a gleaming alabaster and their shingled walls invariably that blue-gray shade most often seen during winter’s dusk, their zigzag access to the beaches below provided by weathered wooden staircases. The marshes, bogs, miniature estuaries, cliffs, coves, beaches, promontories and dunes go by in errant rotation; no one place is exactly like another but, then again, they all bear great resemblance to one another, with everything always ending or beginning at the edge of the ocean, beyond whose farthest rim, it occurs to him, lies England or France. It strikes Duncan, for no reason and suddenly, as queer that he has no idea of which latitude he is on.