And yet in the present situation it had to be. The day ahead had to be faced. Silence, one that stretched like a fitted sheet on a bed. Oliver knew the grown-ups were deep in thought. He had always known that his mother was adopted. It had made her seem even more special. Out of all the families wanting a baby, God had chosen Grandpa and Granny Olive to be her parents. He was glad now that he’d decided not to become an atheist; it could have been a close thing if he’d known how to spell it. Not that atheists couldn’t be really nice people – Brian’s dad was great. Oliver just wasn’t brave enough to go it alone.
‘Oliver surely is dear to me as if he was my own.’ Twyla broke the silence. ‘Some days I feel like I’m about to spill over with love just looking at his face. So you take heart, Frank; I’ll see every bit as much of him as his aunt and uncle will let happen.’ She paused. ‘I wonder if they’ll tell him about the house.’
‘Been thinking about that myself. Somehow don’t think so; best maybe if he doesn’t find out. No . . . need to load up on young shoulders.’
Were they talking about the Cully Mansion being haunted? They could have heard that rumor from Brian’s parents, passed on to them by Grantie Nellie, as Brian called her. But now Grandpa was talking about his parents’ wills.
‘Made ’em before . . . going on that trip. Told us they’d left guardianship to Olive and me. Could’ve been Gerard took offence to that.’
‘Maybe, but surely in light of the estrangement . . .’
Grandpa and Twyla looked up and saw Oliver standing at the top of the stairs. He started down feeling at once very young and quite old. ‘I am going to try to like them.’ He didn’t stretch his smile too big, because then they wouldn’t have believed it. ‘P’raps they’ll bring me to see you real often Grandpa, and let Twyla come and stay at the house. Maybe even Brian too.’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Grandpa.
Oliver ran to kneel down beside the wheelchair and lay his face against the knee beneath the plaid dressing gown. He didn’t have to see Twyla’s face to know that she was also trying not to cry. He felt the trembling hand upon his sandy hair.
‘Remember what you said, Grandpa, about Mom and Dad and Granny Olive never being far away because heaven isn’t some place miles up in the sky, but so near we can touch it? Well, then, you being in the nursing home and me in Sea Glass is going to work out just fine. Probably you’ll get so sick of seeing me come through the door you’ll hide under the blankets.’
‘Won’t.’ A weak echo of Grandpa’s old chuckle. ‘Be getting my squirt gun out from under the pillow.’
‘If anyone’s not nice to you at the nursing home I’ll give them one in the eye with it.’
‘Heard place is better than a spa. Get your own monogr . . .’
‘Monogrammed?’
Grandpa nodded. ‘Toothbrush.’ He was tiring quickly.
‘Breakfast.’ Twyla whisked through the archway into the kitchen. ‘Blueberry pancakes or waffles?’
‘Mind if I go and help?’ Oliver said, not only because of the closing eyes, but to make it sound more like an ordinary day.
‘Love you, boy.’
Twyla was standing with her back to the sink with her head bent, but she looked up the instant Oliver came into the kitchen and held out her arms. They closed around him. He was glad she was tall and bony. She was like a tree, strong and sheltering. ‘You did good in there, lamb baby,’ she whispered. ‘Came back to me that saying about when things get tough . . .’
‘I know,’ Oliver whispered back, ‘the tough get going.’
‘What I prefer to say,’ she stroked his hair, ‘is the tough keep growing.’
‘I’ll remember.’ His voice cracked, but the smile he gave her was real.
She responded in true Twyla fashion. ‘Not that neither of us are likely to grow a hair’s breadth if we don’t get to that breakfast.’
Out came the frying pan, mixing bowl and whisk. Oliver got the bacon, butter and eggs, remembered the blueberries and returned to the refrigerator for them. While Twyla cooked he laid the table.
‘I’ll wheel in Grandpa,’ he said when she was almost ready to dish up. A moment later he came back alone. ‘He’s asleep.’
Her amber-brown eyes met his. ‘Is it important to you that I wake him?’
He returned that look unflinchingly. ‘I want him to sleep. Actually I hope he stays that way till after they come for me. We just said goodbye, didn’t we?’
‘You did, lamb baby, you and that dear man both. Shall I get him upstairs now, while you eat your breakfast?’
‘Yes.’ Oliver knew she understood why he turned away to pick up his plate and take it to the stove.
The blueberry pancakes smelled wonderful, but he knew, as he lifted one with the spatula, that after today it would be a long time, if ever, before he wanted to eat them again. The bacon he just couldn’t face – he left it in the pan. He could hear the sound of the wheelchair being pushed across the living room and then the murmur of Twyla’s voice as she got Grandpa onto the StairMaster. He wished he had a dog to stroke. Grandpa had promised to get him one just before the Parkinson’s came on. A cat would be nice too. Brian said cats were better than dogs. They’d had one of their friendly arguments about it. Oliver knew what he was doing. He was stuffing up his head with thoughts so he wouldn’t break down.
He got the pancake down with the help of a glass of water, then he slowly washed and dried his dishes, put them away in the cupboard and wiped off the table. The kitchen clock said almost eight o’clock. He almost wished now that the time would go faster. The book he had been reading was in his suitcase, but he doubted he could have taken in one word out of three. A comforting thought came: he would go and sit in Grandpa’s chair, the one that used to be his before the wheelchair. It was just like the one Oliver always sat in. But they’d never switched. Grandpa had said that the Anderson men were creatures of habit. Oliver Anderson Cully . . . it was a good name. He had barely sat down when he felt his eyes closing. It had already been a long day and Twyla said sleep was nature’s medicine. He wasn’t sure that he was really asleep; his thoughts continued to float like clouds whose shapes he kept trying to figure out. And suddenly he heard Twyla coming downstairs. It usually took her an hour to get Grandpa to the bathroom and then into bed, but it couldn’t have been that long this time.
‘Almost nine, lamb baby.’ Before he could answer the doorbell rang and she crossed the room to open up.
They were here. Gerald and Elizabeth were stepping inside. Oliver had pictured them in his mind so often during the past few days as a pair of eagles swooping in to grab their prey, so it was a surprise to see two ordinary people. Gerard did have a beaky nose and flat black hair and Elizabeth’s lipstick looked sort of smeary, like she’d put it on without looking. She had lots of untidy hair, sort of blond with dark roots. That was a surprise; somehow he’d thought she’d have it done every day. It didn’t look like she ever combed it. This might have made him more hopeful about her, because it made her seem more real, if her smile hadn’t looked as though she’d been practicing it for days. Maybe she was scared? But why should she be? He was a kid. And Twyla wouldn’t have scared anyone. She had introduced herself pleasantly.
Elizabeth looked nervously around as if expecting someone else to leap out at her. ‘Hello, Oliver. We’ve been counting the days till we could come for you. Isn’t that right, Gerard?’ That sounded rehearsed.
‘Going to have lots of good times.’ Gerard wasn’t good at faking enthusiasm; his dull stare made it clear he wanted to open the door and run back out.
‘Hi,’ Oliver mumbled, frozen in place.
Gerard stood, arms pressed to his sides. If he’d been anyone else Oliver would have felt sorry for Elizabeth. Her face was all flushed.
She extended a hand to Twyla. No nail polish; that was a surprise. ‘You must have been a lifesaver during this difficult time. I always think nurses are wonderful. You have to be cut out for it . . . I just
wouldn’t have it in me. Anyway, we want to thank you for all you’ve done for poor Mr Andrews.’ She looked at Gerard, who nodded. She continued in a shaky sort of voice while staring at the picture of a red barn over the fireplace. ‘I do hope we’re on time. You’re probably anxious to get going on what comes next for you . . . Nurse.’
‘No rush. We’re all ready for you. Would you like to sit down?’ Twyla beckoned them forward, a gesture they ignored; they stayed right where they were, close to the door. Twyla’s smile was her usual nice one. ‘Frank won’t be leaving until this afternoon. He’s asked me to stay on here, till he decides what to do about the house.’
‘What a good idea; I’m so sorry I can’t remember your name from the letter he wrote us.’
‘Washburn. But please, make it Twyla.’
‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth took a step forward as if released by the press of a button. ‘Gerard and I,’ tugging on his arm, ‘fully understand that Mr Andrews wants you and Oliver to see each other while he’s readjusting. If only we weren’t faced with settling into this monstrosity of a house. It’s in such a state we don’t know where to begin. That’s what has us both so nervy. This should all be about our finally doing right by Oliver.’ His stare deflected her glance.
‘If it would be easier if I could come to you.’ Twyla put her hand on Oliver’s shoulder.
Elizabeth fiddled with her watch strap, her eyes uncertain. ‘At the moment it’s so depressing.’ She tucked her hand through her husband’s arm, bringing it up in line with hers. ‘Such a change from our light-filled condo in New York, but we’ll work on making it homelike, won’t we, Ger?’
‘Should only take a century or two.’ Gerard’s dark hair was the only resemblance Oliver could see to the photos of his father. But Dad hadn’t been going thin on top. Gerard’s smile was also thin. ‘Where is the old guy?’ He now sealed his fate with Oliver. ‘Thought he’d be parked at the ready to run us through the mill.’ Oliver made no allowances for this poor attempt at a joke being the result of nerves.
He looked his uncle up and down out of narrowed eyes and was rewarded with a gift he couldn’t wait to tell Brian about so they could laugh their heads off. To think he hadn’t noticed till now. ‘Your fly’s undone,’ he said with relish.
‘Oops!’ Gerard went a bright red, looked down and dragged at his zipper, which didn’t budge until the third desperate tug.
‘I thought it only kind to tell you,’ said Oliver with every appearance of owlish sincerity, and then saw that Twyla was looking worriedly at Elizabeth.
‘You don’t look good, better sit down.’ She helped the other woman into a chair and pressed a hand to the back of her neck. ‘Keep your head down for a few moments while I get you some brandy.’ She was gone and back within seconds with a filled glass.
‘I’m so sorry, what a fool to make of myself?!’ Elizabeth laughed shakily after taking a few sips. ‘The room just started to spin!’
Gerard took the chair beside hers and reached for her hand. Suddenly he looked almost human and his voice carried its own tremor. ‘We’ve both worked ourselves up into a state about today. No idea what to say, or how to say it; felt sure we’d come off sounding like Victorian melodrama villains and haven’t we just!’ He had been talking into the space between Twyla and Oliver, but as if by a great force of will he now looked his nephew in the eyes. ‘Facing you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’ve chosen not to see you all these years because doing so was bound to remind me what a lousy brother I was. But for me he might still be alive.’ He reached for the glass his wife had set down and drained what brandy remained.
‘You couldn’t have talked your parents out of arranging that fatal trip.’ Elizabeth tightened her grip on his hand. ‘And I should have encouraged you to be a presence in Oliver’s life before now. All we can hope is that in time he’ll come to forgive us.’ Her appealing look again went unmet.
Gerard talked to the glass he was still holding. ‘Always the coward’s way out – that’s my life story. Can’t even stand up to myself.’
‘And I’m selfish, always have been. Me first, last and always, but everyone can change, can’t they, if the wake-up call is loud enough? And that’s you for us, Oliver.’ The smile illuminated Elizabeth’s face, making her look – to Oliver’s astonishment – warmly attractive.
‘Right,’ he said. His eyes made clear he hadn’t been taken in. ‘Are we leaving?’
‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to your grandfather before we take off?’ Gerard remained seated. The blank look had filtered back into his eyes. Was he wishing himself somewhere else, or was he drawn against his will back into the past and his brother Max? Who cared what he was thinking?
‘We already said goodbye.’ Oliver stared straight ahead. ‘And it’s not like I won’t be seeing him often at the nursing home. Twyla will take me.’
‘Sure will,’ she squeezed his hand, ‘if Mr and Mrs Cully are OK with that.’
‘Absolutely! What could be better than the three of us working together for the very best outcome all around? Gerard and I don’t deserve your kindness, and believe me, we’re appreciative . . . and humbled.’ There was no denying the gratitude in Elizabeth’s voice as she stood up, or Twyla’s relief.
‘Agreed.’ Gerard, also back on his feet, was again smoothing back his thinning hair. Oliver hoped it would all fall out. He hoped Elizabeth’s smile would split her face open. He hoped they weren’t going to turn out to be reasonably decent people, making it wrong to hate them.
‘I suppose we shouldn’t prolong this.’ Elizabeth reached for Twyla’s hand. Gerard was picking up the suitcases.
The next few minutes passed in a blur. Oliver’s life in the dear old house was over. He was now in the back seat of a car that smelt richly leathery; Gerard was driving.
‘Watch out for that woman on the bicycle!’ Elizabeth warned. The woman was Brian’s mother, Mandy Armitage; she was waving because she had gotten a glimpse of Oliver. He laid his face against the window and wished he could fall back asleep, but Elizabeth turned around and wouldn’t stop talking in a nobly cheerful rush. Bet she felt her halo growing.
‘You are wanted and will be loved, although you might not think it from my cooking; I’ve never had to do much of it, we’ve always tended to eat out. You don’t have to call us aunt and uncle, Oliver. I can understand that might be difficult, at least at first. Elizabeth and Gerard will be just fine.’
‘Thank you.’ And then just for something to say, he added, ‘There’s an Elizabeth in my class, but she’s always called Bess.’
‘Well, don’t ever call me that! It’s a trashy abbreviation. People named “Bess” live in trailer parks.’ A cog had slipped in Elizabeth’s mechanism, necessitating hitting restart. ‘Sorry, it’s hard kicking the snob habit.’
Oliver pulled a face at her now-turned head. ‘Grandpa told me that there was a queen of England, not the one now, but hundreds of years ago, named Elizabeth, and she was called Good Queen Bess. He’s got a book on her. And I wouldn’t have thought she lived in a trailer park. Of course, I don’t suppose they had them then.’
‘I never got into English history.’ Gerard spoke into the sudden silence. ‘Far too bloody. Give me the old American story.’
‘Wasn’t killing off the Native Americans bloody?’
‘I’m talking,’ Gerard raised his voice as a car with the radio going full blast past them, ‘about all those monarchs chopping people’s heads off at the drop of a hat.’
‘Well, there is that,’ agreed Oliver in what he hoped was an annoyingly amiable voice. ‘At first I couldn’t understand why she was called Good Queen Bess because she sent almost every friend she ever had to the block. But, like it said in Grandpa’s book, in those days chopping off your head was letting you die nicely. If they were really mad they had you hanged, drawn and quartered while you were still alive. Of course, everybody has to be alive to be hanged, but you know what I mean. And after thinking about thi
ngs for a while I decided a queen has to do what a queen has to do. I wonder how far blood spurts when you’re beheaded.’
‘For a boy who grew up in the sort of house that has a picture of a red barn on the wall, you can paint a very nasty picture.’ Elizabeth pressed a hand to her forehead.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. But it’s all so interesting. Do you know parents used to have their children watch the executions?’ He really, truly would work on his promise tomorrow, but after the way she had talked to Twyla she deserved to feel sick. ‘Just like it was a picnic with a packed lunch and drinks. A shame there wouldn’t be a van with a man selling ice cream, but you can’t have everything.’
‘Now, Oliver,’ Gerard attempted the role of reasonable adult, ‘how about sitting back and relaxing?’
‘I like to talk. All the time. Don’t you ever wish you could travel back in time in one of those machines? It would be so much fun to sit there on the grass soaking it all in. Well, not the blood, but all the excitement.’ Would they turn and take him back home? Was that what he’d really been hoping for? He had made himself sound wicked. Suddenly he was fighting back tears. One slid down his cheek. ‘OK, I’m going to sleep now,’ he mumbled.
Neither Gerard nor Elizabeth spoke for at least ten minutes, and then he heard her say, ‘Oliver?’ in a questioning voice.
He breathed more deeply.
Then came: ‘In case you’re interested, that fainting turn in there was for real. I thought this is our punishment; I’m going to die in this fusty room with its banal picture of a red barn, but given the future maybe I don’t mind so much.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Liz.’
‘Can you tell me that’s not one seriously disturbed child?’
‘He was getting at us, Elizabeth. He can’t be overjoyed at all this upheaval. And come to remember Max was into history if you include genealogy. If he hadn’t been so into seeking out his roots he wouldn’t have come to this godforsaken place and met that girl.’
Sea Glass Summer Page 7