A Whisper of Bones

by Ellen Hart

  “Did you ever wonder if this illness thingy is just a ploy?”

  Now she’d gone too far. “Why don’t you come over for dinner? I’ll text you with a couple of dates. You can see for yourself how sick she is. But you have to promise to be decent. Friendly.”

  “Leave my sarcasm at the door?” said Cordelia, feigning shock. She flipped open the glove compartment and removed her stash of bubble gum. “I’ll think about it.”

  Many years ago, Jane and Dr. Julia Martinsen, an oncologist living, at the time, in Bethesda, Maryland, had fallen in love. They’d been in a committed relationship for a couple of years, though Jane had finally ended it. Julia had played fast and loose with the truth too many times. Since then, she and Julia had continued to see each other very occasionally, although they were no longer close. Last spring, Julia had confided to Jane that she’d been diagnosed with a serious illness. Her greatest fear was dealing with it—and perhaps the end of her life—alone. Meaning, without Jane. While Jane had moved on, Julia hadn’t.

  In a moment of weakness—which Cordelia likened to Armageddon—Jane had promised to be there for her. Even though the love had died long ago, feelings, unlike faucets, couldn’t be turned off neatly and easily. For a short time in early October, it appeared as if Julia might not have more than a few months to live. Her failing eyesight had made it impossible for her to drive. That’s when Jane had invited her to move into her house. By late October, Julia had rallied and her health had stabilized. And now Jane had a permanent houseguest, which Cordelia maintained was Julia’s intention all along.

  “I’m the clarion call of reason,” continued Cordelia, unwrapping a stick of gum. “You need to listen to me. You may think Julia is water under the bridge, but I’m telling you that unless you burn that bridge to a crisp, she’ll find a way to recross it.”

  “I don’t need all the clichés. The message was received.”

  “She’s going to hurt you again, Jane.”

  “How? I already know she lies and that I can’t trust her. Are you saying she’ll hurt me in some other way? She has cancer, Cordelia, or something very close to it. I know she’s not going to live long.”

  Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen one scintilla of proof that Julia is ill?”

  “I have. I’ve even spoken to a couple of her doctors.” Jane had no doubt that the tumor growing behind Julia’s optic nerve was real, or that the surgery necessary to remove it was not only just a partial cure, but one fraught with danger. Still, there were things she hadn’t told Cordelia, mostly because she wouldn’t understand.

  “Janey, I say these things to you because I love you.”

  “I know that. And I’m grateful. But don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Clear headed, feet on the ground. Same old Jane you’ve always known and loved.”

  “You’re impossible, you know that? But okay, end of rant. For now. Call me when you know more about this Britt person’s investigative issue. I expect a full report.”

  Jane could have taken a few minutes to explain what she’d learned this morning, but she saw no point. Britt hadn’t hired her. More than anything, Jane wanted to get home. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, saluting. “Full briefing tomorrow at oh-six-hundred.”

  “I have no idea what that means. Just don’t call before noon.”

  * * *

  Shortly after ten, as she entered the front foyer of her home, Jane was greeted by two eager dogs vying for her attention. Mouse, a chocolate lab, nosed her hand, his usual earnest self, his tail wagging so fast it was almost a blur. Gimlet, a small black poodle, jumped up and down and twirled around, so excited she could barely keep her balance. How could a person not love dogs? Jane crouched down to give them each a hug and a scratch. When she straightened up, she noticed logs burning in the living room fireplace.

  Coming around the end of the couch, she found Julia sitting on the oriental rug with her back propped against the couch. Next to her was a teapot and two cups.

  “All the comforts of home,” said Jane, sitting down beside her.

  Six months ago, Julia had been fit and working hard at a profession she loved. The medication her doctors had prescribed to deal with the growing tumor had proved to be almost as bad as the disease. She’d lost a good twenty pounds off an already lean frame, mostly because the meds didn’t mix well with food.

  “The fire feels good,” said Jane. “Chilly out there.”

  “I know,” said Julia. “I just got home myself.”

  Julia had hired a personal assistant in mid-October. Carol Westin was a retired RN who’d spent the last twenty years of her working life as a healthcare educator. She and Julia had been friends and coworkers, and now Carol not only acted as chauffeur, but reader of reports and general secretary. Beyond the driving and the reading, she was also helping Julia liaise with lawyers to set up the foundation that would bear Julia’s name, one that would continue the work she cared so much about: medical outreach and training in third-world countries. She worked Carol hard, but paid her well.

  Gimlet pushed her way in between them, buried her nose under Julia’s leg and closed her eyes. Mouse settled down next to Jane. “Have you eaten?”

  Julia nodded to the teapot.

  “That’s not food. Let me make you something.”

  “No. Don’t go.”

  “But you need to eat.”

  She poured the steaming liquid into each cup and handed one to Jane. “Not now.”

  “Soup. There’s always room for homemade chicken soup.”

  “Maybe later.”

  Jane sipped her tea and gazed into the fire. She didn’t want to think about her current situation too critically, but had to admit that it was nice having someone to come home to—someone who’d made a pot of tea and had built a fire. “How was your day?”

  “Good,” said Julia. “For whatever reason, that awful low-grade headache evaporated.” She glanced over at Jane and smiled. “Now that you’re home, I’m even better.” She slipped her hand over Jane’s, then leaned in for a kiss.

  Instead of pushing her away, as Jane had for years, she let the kiss linger. Was she playing with fire by sleeping with Julia, as Cordelia feared? She didn’t think so. What she’d told Cordelia was accurate. She had no romantic feelings for Julia any longer. This was just … what? Affection, perhaps. Whatever it was, Jane wasn’t about to end it. It wasn’t hurting either of them. If anything, coming together the way they had after Julia had moved in was good for both of them. It would end one day, and Jane would have to deal with it, but until then, what was the harm?

  They sat together quietly, the dogs resting contentedly next to them, and watched the fire.

  “Want another cup?” asked Julia.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Jane tipped her head toward Julia. “Why don’t you head up? I’ll put the dogs out, make sure they have their bedtime treat, and then I’ll join you.”

  After Julia was gone, Jane spent a couple more minutes looking into the dying embers, thinking about Julia and how life often took unexpected turns. She kept repeating the thought, What’s the harm? She’d said it to herself so often lately that it was beginning to feel like a mantra. As she was about to get up, her cell phone rang.

  “This is Jane,” she said after pulling it from her pocket.

  “I want to hire you,” came a woman’s voice.

  “Britt?”

  “I found proof that Timmy did exist. Can we get together tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” said Jane.

  “What if I meet you at your restaurant around twelve thirty? I don’t have anything on my schedule until midafternoon.”

  “Sounds good. I can’t wait to hear what you discovered.”

  “I’m still processing it, but I will say this much—it blows my mind.”

  4

  Butch Averil’s father was a sma
ll-town lawyer. Not exactly Atticus Finch, though if you could ignore the fact that he looked more like Pee-wee Herman than he did Gregory Peck, there were similarities.

  When residents of Lewiston, Montana, couldn’t afford to go anywhere else, they would often come to the house at night to talk to him. Thus Butch grew used to seeing the unmistakable signs of worry on people’s faces when they arrived, and the change, the look of hope in their eyes when they left. Not that his dad could work miracles, but he did listen. He tried to make Butch understand that listening was a powerful tool, and that, occasionally, Butch might want to shut up long enough to hear what the people around him were saying. As Butch grew older, he thought about the comment a lot, realizing it was as much an embarrassing commentary on his own teenage years as it was fatherly advice. He tried, as best he could, to take his dad’s advice to heart.

  Shortly after eleven that night, Butch parked his Yukon in front of his house. As he hopped out, a man jogged across the street toward him. Butch stood his ground next to the driver’s door, keys in hand, not sure what the guy wanted. City living, in his opinion, was very different from the quiet of the mountains.

  “Thought I’d introduce myself,” said the man. “Rich Novak. I’m the block captain. I live in the colonial revival.” He pointed.

  “Sounds like you know something about architecture.”

  “A hobby of mine. Anyway, I like to introduce myself to new neighbors. Ain’t seen you around before.” He was dressed in sweats, Nikes, and a hoodie, and had a thick, almost bushy mustache, the kind that always reminded Butch of a 1980s porn star. “So, we do meetings in my living room on the second Wednesday night of each month. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Butch Averil.”

  Novak walked up to the ROOMS FOR RENT sign on Eleanor and Lena’s front boulevard and straightened it. “Never thought old man Hammond would sell that place.” He nodded to Butch’s house. “It was on the market for a good nine months. I walked through it a couple of times. Ain’t in the best shape. I hope you didn’t pay and arm and a leg.”

  “I didn’t buy it,” said Butch. “I’m renting.”

  Novak smoothed his mustache. “That right? Hammond never informed me.”

  Butch couldn’t help but notice the guy’s annoyance and figured he took his block captain status a bit too seriously. “I’ve spent a lot of years in construction, so I was able to make a good deal for myself. Reduced rent for agreeing to do repairs.”

  Novak squinted at the plates on Butch’s truck. “Montana?”

  “Yup.”

  “Never been.”

  “It’s the most beautiful place on earth.”

  “If that’s true, how come you’re here instead of there?”

  Butch shrugged.

  “You an outlaw running from that law?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I see you’ve become friends with Lena. She asking you to buy her booze?” When Butch didn’t respond, Novak added, “I done it a couple times. Can’t be much fun living in that wheelchair. Eleanor’s nice enough, and I know she tries to help, but Lena strikes me as the original lost cause. And then there’s Eleanor’s son, Frank. That guy needs to seriously cut the apron strings.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning someone should tattoo the word ‘loser’ on his forehead. He needs to tell his mother to back the hell off. She’s nice and all, but she can be controlling. And she babies him. Even keeps a bedroom for him in the basement. The guy’s got a wife and a life. Why don’t she let him live it?”

  Butch had formed similar conclusions, though he didn’t think it was right to share them with a stranger.

  “Think about coming to the next block meeting,” said Novak. “It’s good to get to know your neighbors.”

  “Thanks,” said Butch. He dug around in the rear of the Yukon until Novak had returned to his house and gone inside. Grabbing a brown paper sack, he headed up the embankment and crossed the grass to the rear of the Skarsvold house, pausing to remove a small flashlight from his pocket so he could shine a light on the stucco under one of the side windows. The kids he’d seen earlier had spray painted a single word in wavy black letters. “Evil.”

  Coming into the open backyard, Butch approached the sunroom and tapped on the window closest to the street, the one missing a screen. The shade went up and Lena appeared, lights on behind her. Butch pushed up on the window as Lena pulled from inside. “I should fix this for you,” he said. “Make it easier for you to open.” He handed the sack through the opening.

  Lena passed him a twenty. “Will that cover it?”

  This was the second time Butch had bought her a bottle of Old Crow bourbon. It was one of the cheapest brands, though it didn’t taste too bad. He’d been living next door since mid-November. Right away, he’d seen her on the front porch and walked over to introduce himself. She’d offered him a cigarette and told him to sit. She explained that, as long as weather permitted—and sometimes even when it didn’t—this was her nightly ritual. She said that her sister’s head would explode if she smoked in the house.

  “Want to join me for a nip?” she asked, her deeply lined face looking hopeful.

  He was tired, but felt sorry for her, on her way to sit out there all by herself. “You own a good coat?”

  “And wool socks and a fur cap with earflaps. Fashion is my life.”

  He grinned. “Okay. But I can’t stay long.”

  “Why? You got a hot date?”

  Laughing, he whispered, “Only with you.”

  “Good man.” She lowered the window and then the shade.

  After climbing the crumbling cement steps up to the porch, Butch held the screen door open as she wheeled herself out, a grocery sack in her lap.

  “Will you get rid of these for me?” she asked, handing him the sack.

  Inside, he found four empty liquor bottles. “Okay.”

  “Don’t say anything to my sister.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Pulling a flask and two paper cups out from under her coat, she poured them each a generous inch. She offered him one of her menthol cigarettes, but Butch declined, a move that always seemed to disappoint her.

  “So how’s the job search going?” she asked, lighting up and looking blissful as she sucked in a lungful of smoke.

  “Interviewed for a good one yesterday. I’ve got my fingers crossed. I should hear by the end of the week.” He sat down on the wood railing, but got up when he felt it shift and then crack under his weight. “Your house could use a little work.”

  “More than a little,” said Lena. “But there’s no money. El and I live mostly on social security and what we make from renting rooms. Welcome to the joys of old age—in other words, penury.”

  “Do you both own the house?” he asked, settling down on a painted metal chair, more rust than paint.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not sell it?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s holy. Our great-grandfather built it, that’s why it sits kind of crooked on the lot. It used to rest on thirty-five acres of prime farmland. The point is, the house is supposed to be passed down through the family ranks unto the mists of eternity. I grew up here, you know. There were four of us kids. Me, El, our youngest sister Pauline, and our brother, Dan. Dan and Mom died in a car accident when I was still pretty young. I guess you could say Mom never liked driving on highways. She hit a guardrail one night when she was ferrying Dan back from a hockey game, which caused the car to swerve into oncoming traffic. End of Mom and Dan.”

  “You talk about it so … easily.”

  She tossed back a few swallows of the bourbon. “It happened. Nothing I can do about it now.”

  Butch wondered if, when he was an old man, he’d be able to talk about his life with such apparent equanimity. “So you’ve lived here ever since you were
a kid?”

  “Hell, no,” she said, tapping ash into a saucer resting on the floor next to her wheelchair. “I had a life once. Lena Skarsvold was a wild child.” She made her eyebrows dance. “Hard to believe that now, looking at me in this damn chair. Arthritis can end your life as you know it.”

  “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  She grunted. “My hips, my knees, my shoulders, my spine.”

  “Isn’t there something a doctor can do?”

  “Hell. I was given a bunch of prescription forms of ibuprofen. Not only didn’t they help, I ended up in the emergency room with a bad bleed in my stomach. I almost died.”

  “What about medical marijuana?”

  “You have to be on death’s door in this state before they’d give it to you for pain.”

  “Opioids?”

  “Nah, I’d rather drink and smoke and end my life awake, buzzed, and happy.”

  She had a point. If nothing else, drinking was her decision, none of his business. “You know, those kids I saw by your house earlier tonight, they sprayed the word ‘evil’ under one of the side windows. I thought I could paint over it tomorrow.”

  “No, leave it there. The world might as well know who we are.”

  “You’re joking, right?” He studied her face. “How did the idea that your house is haunted get started?”

  She gazed at him over the rim of the cup. “It is haunted. It’s a simple fact.”

  “You believe in ghosts?”

  “You think that’s crazy?” Tipping the cup back and emptying the contents, she settled more comfortably into her wheelchair. “The first time I realized something strange was going on was when I was living in an apartment over on Rice Street. I would leave in the morning, making sure all the windows were closed and locked. More than once, when I got home, I found the window in my bedroom wide open. At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on. The only person with a key to the apartment, other than me, was the landlord, and he was never around, even when I needed something. And then, at night, my bedroom would get freezing cold, even in the dead of summer. The spirit world is real, Butch. Real and dangerous.” She poured herself another few inches of bourbon and downed it, wiping a hand across her mouth.