I took out the flashlight from my backpack and shone it around the room. The walls were covered in Grampie’s paintings. There was the lingering scent of oil paint and turpentine, smells that diminish but never disappear. I went into the kitchen. It was warm inside from the sun beating down all day. On the top shelf was the fancy china set, Blossom Time, and on the bottom shelf, where I’d washed and put it three years ago, was my grandfather’s cup. And there too on the shelf was John Lee’s little cup.
I came into the painting room, Art behind me like a caboose. He went over to the window. “Let’s go. It doesn’t feel right in here.”
“Don’t be afraid of the dark, Art,” I said, turning to go up the stairs, the flashlight beam lighting up the embroidery I’d done, hung up on the wall. I studied it: Grampie carefully stitched, lying on the sofa. I went up the stairs, two at a time, and stood in the doorway of Grampie’s bedroom staring at Grampie’s bed, stripped and bare, and above it, the painting of my grandmother blowing me a kiss from her crippled hand, the sunshine all around her. Art was calling to me, his voice even higher than normal, fright right through him now.
I stood paralyzed in the desiccated air, staring at the painting, Art still calling to me, inching closer, probably thinking something bad had happened upstairs because you don’t go upstairs in a dark boarded-up house at sunset. Please, I prayed, please let my grandmother start talking, give me a message. I called to the memento to come right then. But it was just a painting, of course. Defeated, I turned and shone my light down the stairs, and just then there was a flash of white at the bottom. I had the sharp sense that something else had come in through the window behind me and Art, and that it wasn’t me doing the looking, and my heart started pounding and I started whistling.
I swallowed hard and followed the flash of white, but there was nothing waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs but a mirror and my big eyes looking back at me. My flashlight guided me to the kitchen and then back to where Art was now waiting by the window outside. He looked like he was going to cry when he saw me, and I gave him Grampie’s and John Lee’s teacups, holding them through the open window. Art stood there gaping at me, his arms folded on his chest.
“Just take them,” I said. There was a creak behind me then, and heavy breathing on my face. “Please. Please, Art, take the cups. Did you hear that? Take the cups,” I said.
“I don’t hear nothing but your breathing, Fancy. You sound like Jenny Parker, like you’re having an asthma attack.” Art was afraid as he looked at me, and slowly I realized what he was afraid of. Me. Art was scared of me. He backed up even as he held out his hands and took the saucers, not letting his fingers touch the rims of the cups, holding them away like they was contaminated. I heaved myself out the window but my dress caught on the sill and I tumbled out, crashing down on Art, smacking my head against his, my ears ringing as I rolled over in the grass, stars in my eyes. I rooted like a goat, my hands coming up with pieces of cup, crying now, calling out for Grampie, his name as sharp on my tongue as the piece of broken china that cut into my finger, and I sat back up.
“I’m no believer,” I screamed out. Art reached over and pried my fingers open. They were slippery with blood.
“It’s fine. Look,” he said, his voice urgent. “Fancy, look.” In one hand I held pieces of the saucers, in the other, the teacups, chipped, the handle broken off Grampie’s, John Lee’s untouched, both of them smeared with my blood. They were okay. “We need to get going. Your grandfather wouldn’t like us here. He wouldn’t have wanted it like this. You know it.”
I sat there with the china and he nailed the board back to the window, and disappeared while he took the hammer back to the woodshed. I wrapped the teacup and saucer pieces in my sweater and put them in my backpack.
Art went through the woods with me, through that overgrown trail back to Petal’s End. It was dark by then but our feet knew the land better than our eyes.
“What was that song you were whistling in the Tea House?” he asked me, weakly.
“I don’t know. Must have been the song Grampie sang to me.”
“No,” he said. “I never heard it before.”
“It felt like something was in there looking for me.”
“Maybe we woke up the wood spirits, Fancy. Maybe that’s it. The hobgobblies.”
We said nothing more as we passed through the garden door, pulling it shut tight behind us.
Art followed me through the garden, saying he would get one of the old bicycles and ride it home. The bikes were in one of the carriage houses and Hector had them all tuned up.
“What are you going to do with the cups? Do you think—”
“I don’t know, Art. I don’t know if I’m like Grampie.” The moon was low and we were now by the Wishing Pool, closed in by the cedars. I took the cups out of my backpack, kneeling by the water. A frog croaked. The moon was rising.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It just occurred to me that Grampie looked no different lying on the sofa napping than when he was dead.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I don’t know.” I scooped the moon water into both cups, disturbing a frog who splashed away. The water was clear and I sang, Angels are coming to watch over thee, So listen to the wind coming over the sea. The uneven stones cut into my knee as I lifted Grampie’s teacup to my lips and took a sip. I took another sip, this time from John Lee’s cup, still singing, Hang your head o’er and hear the wind blow, and I saw a small face behind my shoulder, reflected in the water, white like the moon. Art was beside me, and I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.
“Can you see him?” he whispered. “Is Grampie here? John Lee?”
It was still, and an owl called out. Art’s hand snapped out and flipped the cups from my grubby fingers. They shattered on the rock edge and fell to the bottom of the Wishing Pool. “What are you doing?” I screamed, not caring if Loretta heard us, or if I frightened either of them. They should be afraid. I am Fancy Mosher, seer of the dead, I thought.
Art’s voice broke. “Oh, Fancy, let it go. You aren’t like him. And he said it wouldn’t be the same for you so you don’t need any teacup anyway.” He leaned into the water looking for the pieces of teacups and saucers, his tears slipping into the water, the whole pool awake and rippling away any possible reflection.
“There was something there but you scared it away, Art. You ruined everything. Maybe it was Grampie. Maybe he was visiting. To tell me why Ma wants to talk to John Lee. Or John Lee come to speak for himself, to explain. But you went and ruined it.”
I ran all the way to the far door in the wall of Evermore. Art ran behind me calling my name but I was the fastest. The path became illuminated as the garden lamps snapped on. There was a shape standing in the dark of the magnolia tree by the service door. I stopped, Art banging into me for he’d followed immediately as I’d bolted out from the cedars. Hector came out from the shadows. “What in fuck trouble are the two of you getting into here in the garden? Hope you’re being a gentleman, Arthur.” Hector winked at Art, and his expression changed as he saw Art’s red eyes. “Well, I guess crybabies don’t get up to that yet, no offence, Art. Fancy, you being mean to him? Loretta’s looking for you. Good thing she didn’t hear all the commotion, Girly Miss and Mister Man, like old Loretta calls you. What do you think she’d call me?”
“Arsehole,” I said, and he rubbed his ear like he heard wrong and started laughing. Art didn’t laugh and neither did I but the tension was broken. It was nothing more than childish imaginings. The moon can make you think the craziest things.
“Well, Loretta don’t strike me as the swearing kind. I’m sure she’s got a nicer name than that for me, even in private.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you left for the day.”
“A handyman’s day is never done, don’t you know. Just doing some extra chores,” Hector said. “Art, I’ll take you home. Fancy, you should get in there before Lo
retta thinks we’re up to no good and blames me.” He lit a cigarette and leaned against the tree as he winked. There was a belch and Hector waved his hand. “Well, Jesus, Buddy, come on out. Don’t hide behind a tree like a pussy.” Out stepped his short friend, Buddy Mote. He was the same age as Hector, nineteen, but he was already balding. He had a thin moustache, and no matter what he said it came out as a whine or a snort. “Buddy’s helping me out with them lawnmowers. Don’t see why the Briar Patch can’t bring their own but who am I to question?”
Buddy burped at Art and gave me an up-and-down. “It’s a weird place up here,” he said, looking at Art and over to me, up and down, up and down.
“It’s no weirder than you are,” I said.
“Fancy’s had a long day. Don’t you mind her, Buddy. She’s a real nice girl.”
I left them all there and went around to the kitchen door. Art came behind me calling he was sorry but I told him to go, and I could hear his footsteps stop as I slammed the kitchen door closed.
Loretta was in her nightgown, reading a book in her sitting room. She looked at me standing in the doorway and gestured at a chair. I told her I was done for the day, that I lost track of time in Evermore. She could tell I was upset but she didn’t pry, and I left. In my room I could hear her climb the stairs and come down the hall to my room for the second time that same day. I sat on my bed thinking about them broken teacups.
“Girly Miss, it’s been a long day. You should get some sleep. Don’t fret about this. I’m so sorry. I never should have let you go to your mother’s overnight in the spring. It set her off. She’s been waiting, the poor wreck of a woman. This is my fault.” Loretta went down the hall and came back with a warm facecloth and washed my cheeks and eyes.
“I want to know if I’m like Grampie, Loretta. Why wouldn’t Grampie help Ma?”
“Because knowing any more about John Lee wouldn’t have helped her. Or any of us. What could be done? Unspeakable things happen to the young and old.”
“Well, maybe if I could speak to John Lee then Ma would stop hounding me. Maybe I could try. At least Ma told me the truth, and you and Grampie never did.”
Loretta looked tired and stiff. “Don’t be like your mother. She told you the truth for selfish reasons. You must pray for strength to carry on, that’s what you must do.”
“I went to Grampie’s house. I took the cups. They got broken.” I cried more and told her how angry I was with Art.
“Oh, Fancy, don’t go looking for it. Part of me believes that perhaps your grandfather just imagined these people, these visitors. And I don’t mean he was crazy. You know how these artist types are, seeing inspiration in all his surroundings. That’s how I mean it. You know how some people say the birds talk to them, how they see things in the clouds? Well, your grandfather, he saw things in teacups, at the tea table. You’ve got that same spirit in you, in your great dark eyes. It’s for the best that you broke those cups.” Loretta gave me a smile but her lips fell back down like they was too haggard to care what Loretta wanted out of them. “You must try to go about your life the same way as you have, no different, my dear. Your grandfather, he didn’t go looking, you see. And you don’t need to either, Fancy. Go to bed and say your prayers.” Loretta kissed me on the head and left.
I put Grampie’s letter on the bedside table and prayed to Holy Mother Mercy to come in my dreams and tell me how to see the dead. I prayed to the stars and the sky. When you’re a child you believe such things can hear you. You know with absolute certainty the twinkling star is twinkling only for you. Keep me safe, I said in the dark. All night it seemed there was a voice out there singing, that maybe some spirit had been following me around. I decided what I believed in was the Grampie I remembered, and he was there beside my bed, not a dead Grampie but the one I knew, with his cheerful, wrinkled face, his dentures white, his low grumbly voice singing, Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow. The curtains were long and slender white on either side of the window, and the moon moved across the sky as smooth as a petal blown over the surface of a pond. I could almost feel Grampie’s rough hand softly graze my forehead as sleep drew me in.
5.
Margaret and Hector
ART AND I spent the next morning picking strawberries in the kitchen garden, relieved to have the wreck of my birthday behind us. We did not speak of the day or night before. In the early morning the letter had been there on my bedside table. I had taken it and crawled under my bed, where a piece of the wooden floorboard was cut as a lid, with a metal hook, to cover a small compartment. I kept special stones in it and a lavender peony sachet for good luck, to keep the good fairies about. I put the letter in there, where it would be out of sight and out of mind. And so it was, as we picked and ate those succulent strawberries until the sun was coming up on high noon.
On our way back through the garden we cut tall flowers and took them in a gathering basket to the house. Loretta was in the kitchen bustling about, writing things down on lists and sticking them to the bulletin board for the house and estate staff, which was me, Art and Hector. There were lists she did up for the services they contracted out, as it was called: the gardeners, cleaners, roofing and electrical services. There was a big chalkboard on one wall where she wrote out her own schedule and personal lists. Loretta was worried that the Parkers might appear in the doorway, ringing bells, at any moment. We were out of practice with real people.
I went into the flower-arranging room off the side of the kitchen. There were shelves with every kind of vase and flower-holder, from the smallest bud vases to enormous silver pitchers and all sorts of jardinières. Along the far wall was a wide counter for arranging flowers and a sink for rinsing stems and knives. I heard Loretta and Art talking away, the muffled sounds a familiar comfort. I took a big full vase and struggled down the hall connecting the back house to the main residence, pausing at the door to the Annex. There was a small mirror across from it with an ornate frame. I was waiting to hear a sound coming from inside, but there was nothing. No singing or rustling, nothing but the usual creaks of the house. I did check in the mirror but there wasn’t no one or thing standing behind me, just the locked door and the window beside it.
I continued down the hall, out the door that led into the grand hall, and put the flowers on the big round table with the gleaming marble surface. The table faced the massive front door. It was opened to the screen door Hector had put on for the summer. It was later in the morning and the torrid air was coming through both the door and the windows. We always opened them up in the early morning so the fragrant brisk air would fill the house, and we’d shut up them later against the approach of the heat. Marigold wouldn’t let the windows or doors stay open at night, due to her superstitions. Loretta must have forgotten to close them up.
Right off the grand hall was the music room. The door was open and sun streamed through the lace sheers hanging in the tall southern windows. In the room were Marigold’s prized Queen Anne armchairs with elaborate embroidery seat covers: a black background and an intricately stitched array of flowers and birds in deep, brilliant colours. This was my mother’s fine work. Marigold had loved to sit in those chairs, resting and contemplating or listening to Pomeline’s sonatas. Loretta said Pomeline was taking her exams for the music conservatory at the end of the summer but I didn’t see how that would be much different from any other time Pomeline was out over the years. She’d sit in there at that piano, the music pouring through the rest of the house, shimmering and rising through the rooms and halls, even reaching the servant quarters. Despite my occasional lessons with Pomeline and practices by myself, I never could truly relax when I was in any part of the main house alone. It felt like an empty stage, just waiting for the Parkers to come back and start performing.
My understanding of the past was very different since Ma had come to my school with her gruesome news flash. Standing at the door looking at the Queen Anne chairs took me back three years to when I had moved into Petal’s End with Lore
tta. That first day, Loretta toured me through the grounds and the mansion. I remembered my first time seeing the music room. I stood by the piano while Loretta pointed out the chairs to me and explained Ma’s design was to reflect the estate—the gardens and creatures. The Colonel loved the chairs as much as Marigold and had gone so far as to have Ma brought up from the kitchen and presented at a reception when guests inquired about the embroidery. The high-backed chairs was taller than I was. The air had wafted in through the front windows, aromatic with the lavender and rosemary growing around the stone pathway in front of the house. Loretta had announced then that I must never play in the main part of the house. It was forbidden. And she told me why I was to take the rule seriously. She took me back out into the hall, to the bottom of the enormous oak staircase. Loretta put her hand on the carved wooden banister post as she said how John Lee and young Master Charlie had come sailing down the banister one summer day when Marigold had been reposing in the music room. The door was closed tight. The boys weren’t supposed to be playing in the main house, certainly not John Lee. He was not permitted in this part, only the kitchen or the playrooms and nursery, or in the garden. Some other children visited but poor Charlie was so timid he would only play if John Lee was by his side. Charlie and John Lee were the same age and the best of friends even though they was total opposites. There was a new nanny, Loretta said, but no one could find her. She’d left the children unsupervised.
Charlie and John Lee had come cruising down the banister in a gale of laughter. They were playing tag and had decided to hide on the main floor in the music room. They tumbled in the door and onto the soft silk carpet at Marigold’s feet. The story went that her eyes flashed open and she was yelling, How dare you come in here, John Lee. The servants’ children are forbidden to play here! Marigold rang the bell for the nanny but it was Loretta who came running. Marigold shrieked that John Lee was not to be left to run about the property like a stray dog. Charlie started shouting how John Lee was his best friend.
The Memento Page 8