Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Serves you right, stupid. You're supposed to be cleaning house. She took it as a sign that there was no place in her life just now for idle curiosity. So she returned to the cottage, took up her Tilex, and attacked yet another colony of mildew. By evening her hands looked like prunes and her lungs felt scalded; but the house was beginning to look and smell undeniably clean.

  When the knock came at the door, her first instinct was not to answer. She was a mess, and she had no wish for distractions. But the drapes were still open, and it was obvious she was at home.

  It was Cissy. "Have you seen my dog?" she asked with a hopeful smile. "He's run away again."

  "I heard him bark not so long ago. The last time that green pickup drove past."

  "Oh, yeah; Buster really gets into it when he goes through. So you can hear Buster barking?" she asked naively.

  "Seattle can hear him," Jane couldn't help saying. When Cissy looked crestfallen she added, "But it's not a problem. Really."

  "Oh, good. After a while you hardly notice." She peeked around Jane at the horribly furnished parlor beyond. "I've never seen this place before," she said, pretty much inviting herself in.

  With a silent sigh Jane stepped aside for her to come in. "It's not much to look at right now."

  "My God; I guess," Cissy blurted, looking around her. "Who would've thought a place like this could be located right next to my brother's?"

  "Gee. Go figure," said Jane laconically.

  "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Cissy said quickly. "It's just that I've heard such weird stories about this place and the lady — your great-aunt Sylvia — who lived here. Like how one of her cats only had three legs because she needed the fourth one for a spell. Whereas my brother is just so, you know, normal. Like you," she added brightly. "You're normal."

  Jane laughed out loud. Cissy seemed so young. She made Jane feel so old. "I'm sure you mean that in the very best way, Cissy; but it's late and I have an awful lot of work to do."

  "Oh, okay," she answered, taking no offense. "I'll just take a quick peek around and go. I really should find Buster before he ends up at the shelter; he's been there twice this month already."

  She went through the rooms with Jane in quick succession, finishing up in the fireplace room, which in the soft glow of lamplight looked warm and cozy. Almost immediately Cissy spied the tarot cards spread out on the inlaid table.

  "Tarot! Cool!" She ran over to the table and said with real enthusiasm, "This is a beautiful deck; I've never seen one this old before. Will you give me a reading sometime?"

  "I wouldn't know how," Jane said simply. "Those cards were there, arranged just like that, when I arrived."

  "Really! So you don't know what the question was that was put to them." Cissy lifted a card from the center one on which it lay. "Hmmm ... the significator card is the Lovers ... I wonder if your aunt was doing a reading for someone."

  "You understand the cards?" Jane asked, surprised.

  "Well, no; but one of my sorority sisters used to do readings for us."

  Cissy pored over the layout of cards attentively, sweeping her blond hair away from her face, drawing her brows together in concentration. Finally she shook her pretty head. "Nope. Without knowing what's called the 'situation,' I couldn't tell you."

  She looked up; the expression in her blue eyes was uncharacteristically serious. "But I can tell you one thing. If this was a random spread, it's a very powerful one."

  She motioned Jane to the inlaid table and said, "Out of seventy-eight tarot cards, only twenty-two are what're called the Greater Arcana — somewhere I heard that that works out to two out of seven. But look at the ten cards dealt here: Seven are from the Greater Arcana. That's really rare. Here's the High Priestess, here's the Moon ... Temperance ... Judgment ... the Charioteer ... and — anyone would recognize this one — Death."

  Jane studied the beautifully illustrated antique cards at length. Their rich colors and intricate designs seemed to blend perfectly with the worn Persian rug in the room. Part of her wanted to believe that the cards were nothing more than her aunt's decorative arrangement of objets d'art.

  The other part of her wanted to know how long her aunt had been a witch.

  Cissy left and Jane, suddenly unable to keep her eyes open, decided to wash up and call it a day. She was changing in front of the old, beveled mirror that hung in a simple frame in the bathroom when she saw the scratch she'd got on her left shoulder from the rosebush. All day long she'd been bothered by a stinging, burning sensation. Now she knew why: the scratch had gone deep, drawing blood. The blood had smeared across a broad section of her shoulder and breast, making the wound look much worse than it was. Jane had no antiseptic, of course; so she cleaned the scratch with soap and water, slipped into a warm flannel nightgown, and went to bed.

  As she dropped off into a troubled sleep, the last image to flit through her mind was of richly designed tarot cards smeared with blood.

  ****

  It was pitch black out, wild and wet and frightening. She was hovering over a precipice, inches away from a drop that she knew fell thirty feet. She didn't care. She had been there many times before, straining to see into the blackness, over the precipice, into the distance beyond. It was impossible, of course. She knew that. She always went there when the weather was foul, but when the weather was foul, she could not see. It was an infuriating, agonizing conundrum.

  Her hands gripped the rough and weathered wood railing as she leaned into the fury of the wind, squinting into nothingness. Tomorrow morning her hands would once again be filled with splinters. She knew that, too, but it made no difference. Nothing could change her behavior, because her actions were driven by fear — fear that this time, he would not come back. How could he possibly come back? She brought both hands up against her mouth, warding off a vomit of terror. He would come back; he'd done it before. He knew she couldn't live without him. He must come back.

  The rain drove sideways into her face, soaking her gown, blowing her bonnet from her head. Held in place by the ties under her chin, the bonnet flopped madly back and forth across her shoulders like a kite on a short tether. She didn't care. Her mind was racing ahead, through a life lived without him. But it raced through blackness, like a meteor through space, because without him there was nothing.

  She clung there, wet and wild with fear, waiting. But she waited in blackness.

  ****

  When Jane woke up, she was drenched in sweat. At first she thought she was soaked from the rain; and then she remembered the dream. The strange and terrifying dream; it came back to her in bits and pieces as she staggered out of bed and into her morning routine. She remembered the terror of it with an intensity that even now made her shiver. And yet she knew in her soul that the terror had had nothing to do with the high and windswept place where she dreamed she'd stood, watching and waiting. No, the terror had come from the thought that she'd never again see this ... this someone she loved so immeasurably.

  Who?

  She wasn't in love with anyone, had never been in love with anyone, not to that degree. Why would she dream that she was? Or maybe she hadn't been dreaming of herself. Maybe it was one of those dreams where you were in the character and yet somehow out of the character, watching from the front row. She had a vivid image of that bonnet, flapping back and forth across someone's shoulders.

  Whose?

  The dream bothered her more than she wanted to admit; it was just so ... intense. And yet, as all dreams do, this one faded, and by the time the coffee was brewed, Jane was convinced that it was the result of late-night snacking and an overactive imagination.

  She'd been tired the night before, that's all, and she'd let Cissy spook her. New house, long hours, no phone, no TV — that kind of isolation was bound to make a person think funny. But now it was a bright new day, and Cissy was coming over to help paint, and she was even bringing along a radio.

  "Tomorrow's Sunday and I have nothing to do," she'd insisted to Jane t
he night before. "Please let me paint. Please please please."

  So Jane had let herself be talked into accepting Cissy's help later, and now she was lingering over her Cheerios and reading the preface to the book on the tarot that she'd pulled down from the shelves. She was glad to read that tarot had nothing to do with either witchcraft or fortune-telling — meaning she and her mother were both wrong — and that it was to be regarded, instead, as a body of wisdom.

  That made sense. Aunt Sylvia had been nothing if not a seeker of wisdom. She'd read Scripture, she'd read Shakespeare, she'd read the Vedas. She'd read anything she could get her hands on. Naturally she would've read the tarot.

  Jane put the book aside, then sipped the last of her coffee while she studied the kitchen with an eye to improving it. In a way, it would be nice to leave it just the way it was, right down to the collection of old spoons that hung in a little wood rack next to the door. But the layout was hopelessly inefficient; it would surely kill a sale. The pantry would have to go and new cabinets be installed.

  She heard a sound, turned, and saw Cissy's nose pressed up against the window in the back door; the girl waved energetically and let herself in. "Where do we start?" she asked, hiking up a pair of oversized painter's pants and adjusting the red kerchief on her head. She looked charming but inept — kind of like a Barbie doll with a paint bucket.

  Jane poured her a cup of coffee and said, "So where did you end up finding Buster last night?"

  "I didn't, exactly," Cissy said with a guilty smile. She scooped two teaspoons of sugar into the mug. "But don't worry; I promised I'd help you paint, and that's what I'm going to do."

  "Cissy! What about Buster? I thought —"

  A heavy rap at the kitchen door sent Jane jumping. Through its window she saw the man from J & J Nursery, with what could only be called an evil look on his face. When she opened the door, it became clear why: He was holding a rope attached to Cissy's dog. There he was, big, dumb Buster, panting expectantly, all set for the next adventure.

  The dog saw his mistress and tried to make a dash for her, but his holder said "Stay" in a voice that suggested there were few other options.

  "Sorry to bother you," he said to Jane — although it looked like he didn't care one way or the other — "but I was on my way over to return the dog to Mrs. Hanlin, when I saw her come in here."

  "Oh thank you," Cissy cried, rushing up to them. "Where was he?"

  "In our barn. Nose to nose with a raccoon. I considered bringing him over after I split up the pair, but I didn't think you'd like being rousted from bed at three A.M."

  "God, no. Good thinking," Cissy answered, completely missing the irony in his voice. Without any apology she took the rope from him, wrapped it twice around her fist, and said gaily. "Be back in a sec."

  That left Jane trying once again to make eye contact with the square-jawed and evasive stranger. He had known her aunt; she wanted to know how well. Was that asking so much?

  He was already turning to leave, so she said quickly, "You're from J & J Nursery. I've seen your truck."

  His smile was thin and ironic. "You mean you've heard it."

  "That too," she admitted with the exact same smile. Hoping to get some clue who he was, she asked, "What does J & J stand for?"

  "Jim and John. Is it important?" he asked, cocking his head just enough to show insolence.

  His uppityness seemed uncalled for, so she dug her heels in, ignoring it. "I see," she said with deliberate brightness. "So are you Jim, or are you John?"

  "I'm Mac."

  "Ah. Neither." A hired hand, then, with a chip on his shoulder. "I'm Jane," she said, matching his tone exactly. "Pleased to meet you." With that, she let him go.

  He went — but not before tugging at the brim of his cap in a yes-m'am way that left her somehow embarrassed and indignant.

  Really! she thought, closing the door after him. What did I do? Try to start an innocent conversation? She slammed her cup, much too hard, on the porcelain drainboard of the sink. Her mother's first impression of the man had been right: it was obvious that he lacked any manners at all. She folded her arms across her sweatshirt and glared at the kitchen floor.

  But after a moment her anger relented. After all, she'd been the one who hadn't bothered at first to introduce herself. She'd treated him like some hired hand before she'd known he was a hired hand. And she shouldn't have done it even then. It was a rotten start, she realized, dispirited. She'd never get him to open up about Aunt Sylvia.

  Why did he throw that flower in her grave?

  Chapter 4

  Cissy showed back up, this time with the radio, and after that, Jane was too immersed in giving painting lessons to worry about Mac and his flower. It turned out that Cissy was hopeless — hopeless! — as a painter's assistant. She dripped, she slopped, she couldn't cut in a straight edge to save her life. Jane, who could paint and wallpaper with one arm tied behind her back, was spending half her time cleaning up after the girl.

  Still, it was almost touching to watch Cissy dip the brush into the paint, take aim, and swing it like a bat at the wall, all the time happily chatting nonstop about the men in her life, good and bad.

  "I can't believe that with a role model as perfect as my brother, I went and married a stinker like Dave. I was too young — nineteen is way too young — but how could I not see that Dave only cared about football, beer, and D-cups, in that order? I mean, unless there was a game on TV, I couldn't ever count on his being at home — no, wait, I'm a liar; once he cheated on me during a Superbowl — and after a while that gets really tired, y'know?"

  She frowned and took aim at the wall again. "So I left him. It wasn't easy, but Bing has been so supportive. He's basically raised me since our parents died. I came to Nantucket because Bing said it would be a good place to sort myself out."

  She noticed a huge paint blob on the floor, lifted her shoe, checked the sole, wiped it with a rag, and kept on painting, kept on talking. "Well, I'm sorted out now. I want to go back to New York, but Bing says Dave will make trouble for me if I do. Dave's not taking the divorce so well. So I'm supposed to stay here until it's final. But, like, there's nobody here in wintertime, only old people. Well, your age."

  She stepped back in the blob and then wandered over to tune the radio, leaving little white pawprints on the only section of floor that Jane hadn't covered. The girl's knack for mess was almost uncanny. Resigned, Jane had already decided to have the floor sanded and varnished later on. It was in poor condition anyway, and anything was easier than trying to clean up after Cissy.

  "Your brother does sound too good to be true," Jane said thoughtfully. She remembered his chivalric attempt to lure Buster away from her car and smiled to herself. "I always wanted a brother," she added. "It would've taken some of the pressure off me from my dad."

  "Oh, you mean your dad wanted you to play basketball with him and stuff like that?"

  "Yeah — stuff like that," Jane said, cutting in her brushstroke with an expert hand.

  "Have you ever been married?" Cissy asked absently.

  "Nope."

  "How come?"

  In new company, as at family weddings, the question was inevitable. Still, it didn't get any easier to answer with practice. "I dunno," Jane said vaguely. "Haven't found anyone, I guess. Besides, haven't you seen the infamous Harvard study on single women my age? Our chances are better of getting killed by a terrorist."

  "That's crazy. Look at you: tall, auburn hair, good voice, green eyes. You could have about anyone." Paint was oozing from the brush down Cissy's forearm; she tried rubbing her arm on her pants and became more thoroughly covered with paint than the wall she was working on.

  "Have you ever been involved, at least?" Cissy persisted.

  Jane was glad not to have to disappoint her. "Yes," she said, "I was involved once — when I was at Rhode Island School of Design. But he got a job in Chicago, and I chose not to follow him out there."

  "Why not? Didn't you get along?"


  "Sure we did." Maybe too well; he bored her.

  "Too bad, then," Cissy answered promptly. "That was your mistake. What would you do if Phillip Harrow asked you out?" she suddenly asked.

  "He'd better not; I don't have a thing to wear," Jane quipped. After a moment she added, "Phillip's not married?"

  "He was, to a wealthy woman. But his wife died five or six years ago. They were out sailing and got caught in a squall. He almost drowned trying to save her. They were only married a year, I think. Everyone said he just about died over it. It's only recently that he's started seeing women again."

  Jane poured some paint into her roller pan. "You seem to know an awful lot about his love life," she teased.

  Cissy's cheeks took on a pretty shade of pink. "Well, I was kind of interested for a while. But he's too old — forty."

  "Oh, yeah," Jane agreed. "One foot in the grave."

  ****

  By the time Phillip Harrow's dinner party rolled around, Jane had gone back to her condo in Connecticut for her car, her clothes, and her own linens. The week had flown by. She'd spent one day sorting and piling up furniture for a dump run. Another day, talking to every house painter on the island. Another, collecting estimates for knocking out a new kitchen. Before she knew it, the week was over and she wasn't any further along on the white-paint front.

  Which was just as well. Because the more she studied the room she and Cissy had painted, the more boring it looked. The house deserved better. It had lots of charm and character and old-fashioned detail. She began to think about wallpaper instead.

  After all, the town was full of inspiration: in the beautifully papered rooms in the shingled and clapboarded houses that stood cheek by jowl on every street and lane. Some of them were stately homes built by whaling captains, and some were simple lean-tos built by ordinary folk. Some had elegance, some had charm, some had both. Most had wallpaper.

  At first it was the wallpaper that drew Jane out for a quick walk through town every evening. Most of the houses were closed down for the winter, of course; but she did her best to peek into the ones that weren't. She'd drag her steps to get a better look into the open-shuttered parlors, or suddenly decide to retie her shoe in front of some door with sidelights. Through the glass she'd see wonderful patterns and colors: florals and bamboos, stripes and Orientals; rich reds, deep greens, subtle off-shades of every color in between.