by Karen Kelly
And nearly all of them held a subtle, wounded reproach about her spare replies. The most recent made her wince.
I guess nobody’s perfect, so I’ll forgive you for not being a very good correspondent. You make up for it in plenty of other ways. But you’re not off the hook—I’ll take what I can get. I had them in a box under my bed, but a mouse chewed through the cardboard and started to build a nest, so now they’re in a drawer. I just wish there were more.
Susannah could barely make herself pick up a pen. She had somehow managed to fill her paltry pages with gossipy items, like the scandalous behavior of her friend Evelyn Smythe, who came to class wearing trousers and a sailor’s cap and refused to return home and put on a skirt until the headmistress threatened expulsion. And she could usually rely on some kind of family doings—such as the news that Kit had decided to spend the spring semester traveling abroad. But the effort was murder.
With a sharp shake of her head, she stood and crossed the room. She couldn’t stand to think about it. There hadn’t been any need to discuss it with Chap—the understanding was implicit: they would wait to face the requiem until Wyatt came home. And in the illusory meanwhile, Susannah had discovered that burying one’s head in the sand could make it curiously easier to breathe.
As she lay the issue of the Keystone on her dressing table, she glanced into the mirror. Looking back at her was a girl she didn’t even recognize. Her feelings for Chap were so novel, so powerful, that she couldn’t help but wonder: If not for him, would she ever have known? In her new awareness, she felt an abject pity for every other girl in the world, and even the basket of letters couldn’t squelch a private smile as she thought about the previous afternoon.
Chap had arrived at the boathouse a few minutes late and slightly out of breath. He’d approached with a long, swift stride, and in the sweep of an instant she was in his arms—his voice low and teasing as he pressed her against the weathered, peeling wood. “I heard there was some good fishing down here, but this is one for the wall.”
A vision of an enormous sailfish—displayed in all of its prowess-proving glory over the fireplace in her father’s study—rendered Susannah uncommonly witless, and her murmured response went straight down the middle of home plate: “I wouldn’t like being mounted on a wall.”
And at that, Chap drew back—grinning as if the bases were loaded. He had no choice but to swing. With a speculative glance at the feathery sedge growing full on the ground, he pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes: “How would you feel about a riverbank?”
Eleven
DECEMBER 1962
“Behold this day—a great light shineth upon Bethlehem!” Gigi was poised in the foyer with a crystal mug of hot buttered rum, toasting the travelers upon their return. She was dark of hair and petite of frame; a passing stranger would have been hard-pressed to identify her as Frank’s sister, much less his twin. Her delicate, heart-shaped face resembled that of her aunt India’s … but her style was all her own. She was decked out in a bohemian ensemble of ballet flats, slim black slacks, and a crushed velvet smoking jacket, with a glittering stack of bangles on each wrist and a flowing scarf wrapped gypsy-style around her head.
“We’ve been strictly denying ourselves the least speck of yuletide cheer until you got here—I just now donned my gay apparel.” It had been long enough since her last visit that the children had only an anecdotal familiarity with their aunt—they didn’t really remember the actual person—and their eyes were like quarters as she swanned across the room, wafting traces of cigarette smoke and patchouli. “And I’ve been waiting with my mistletoe for these little elves.” Pulling a small sprig from behind her ear, she held it over their heads. After kissing them each on both cheeks, she ran an appraising eye over Charlie’s cast, which rose to his shoulder. “I heard about the broken wing.” Tracing the length of it with her finger, she whistled. “That’s a doozy, but it lacks”—she squinted thoughtfully—“flair. See me later and I’ll get out my brushes. We’ll have this sad old thing looking like a Mondrian in no time.”
Moving to the doorway, she rose up on her toes to give the same European-style greeting to her brother. “You’re looking very dapper, Francis.” He was still in his overcoat, and she tucked the mistletoe into the lapel before turning to his wife. “And Jo—the wild Irish rose. I swear, you get prettier every year. Look at that complexion. It’s positively infuriating.” Holding her drink out to the side, she put her free arm around Joanna in a half-hug.
Joanna responded with a full one, squeezing her sister-in-law tight for emphasis. “Thanks so much for waiting for us—it really meant a lot.”
Gigi gave a dismissive little scoff. “Non è niente, cara. I’m just glad you’re all here now—we’ve had quite enough of our own squawking in this old henhouse. What we need”—she reached over and ruffled Daisy’s hair—“are some little foxes to stir things up around here.” Holding her mug up like a torch, she started across the hall. “The merry widows await—let the bacchanal begin. There’s a scrumptious-looking hors d’oeuvres spread, and some hot cider for you tots—and we’ve got lots of lovely little gifts just itching to be opened.”
Coats shucked, they trailed behind her, entering the drawing room to find Helen and Susannah cozied up to the fire with their own crystal mugs.
“Ah, the shepherd and his flock, returned safely to the manger,” Helen warbled. “Merry Christmas, one and all!” Although her cane rested against the side of the sofa, she was settled in too deeply to try to get up, and she had to make do with a seated welcome.
Susannah stood and held her hands out to the children, who obligingly wrapped their arms around her waist, Charlie defaulting to his left one. She patted their backs, saying, “You got here in the nick of time—we were about to call the orphanage and tell them we had all these presents just sitting here, with no one to open them.”
Charlie pivoted toward the tree, unable to check a mild panic even though he knew better, but Daisy was more interested in trumpeting the latest excitement. Pulling on her grandmother’s sleeve, she rushed to fill her in: Santa had come down the chimney in Pennsport, yielding Daisy’s dearest desire—a Chatty Cathy doll.
Joanna settled in next to Helen on the sofa, from which vantage she had her first glimpse of the abundant bright packages under the tree. As Daisy gave a full accounting of Cathy’s impressive erudition, Joanna gave Frank a gimlet eye. She had made her feelings about extravagant gifts perfectly clear, and urged him to ensure some measure of restraint on the parts of his mother and his grandmother. But he had been defensive. “You know my family has never been much for Christmas excess. Birthdays, yes—but at Christmas, if you remember, we just exchange a gift or two. I don’t think the fact that the kids live here now will change anything—Grandmother will give them silver dollars, and Mother will give them whichever toy the clerk suggests.”
But the vivid bounty crowding the bottom branches proved otherwise, and he seemed honestly chagrined. With a sheepish shrug, he put his hands in his pockets, rocking heel to toe. “Looks like someone got a little carried away this year—that’s quite a pile.” He raised a dubious brow at his mother. “Have you found a boyfriend at FAO Schwarz?”
Susannah gave him a mordant smile. “I can assure you, dear, that if I were to find a friend, it would not be in a shop, nor would it be a boy. You can thank your sister for the largesse. As we all know, Genevieve never does anything by halves.”
“Well, I couldn’t arrive empty-handed,” Gigi said, refilling her cup from a samovar on the satinwood console. “And I have to make up for lost time. I took an extra day in the city when I landed—let me tell you, the Algonquin is not what it used to be. But I made the most of Fifth Avenue, which still puts Oxford Street to shame.” She took a seat near the Christmas tree, then set her cup down and clapped her hands. “Who’s first? I’m distributing these in special order … saving the best for last.”
That did it—Daisy forgot all about the doll, bea
ting her brother to the foot of Gigi’s chair and jigging in expectant place.
Possibly, the cavalcade that followed would have pushed Joanna over the edge on its own; but even the lavish excess of telescopes and racetracks and painting easels and musical instruments was eclipsed by the final gift.
When Gigi held out two envelopes, the children barely paid attention. They were still trying to digest the splendor of the spoils, and the plain manila was somewhat lacking in flavor. “It’s something for all three of us,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ll give you a hint: These hold the keys to castles and double-decker buses and an enormous clock tower.”
This succeeded well—they took the envelopes and tore them open, eager to solve the mystery.
“What is it?” Daisy looked quizzically at the document in her hand, unable to make out the codes and abbreviations.
Charlie lit on the words in boldest type. “It says ‘Idlewild’ (that one took an extra beat), and ‘Heathrow.’” He looked up proudly.
“You’ve got it!” Gigi’s smile was brilliant. “I’ve told all my friends in London about the two little poppets who live in the States, breaking my heart with the distance, and they’re all just dying to meet you. I thought this summer would be perfect. I’m free the entire month of August, so get those raincoats ready. You’ll be on your way across the pond before you know it!”
Whether the children reacted with thrilled excitement, nervous trepidation, or bland equanimity, Joanna couldn’t have said. And there was certainly some response from the others, but she wasn’t aware of that, either, because all she could see was a haze of red, and all she could hear was a thrumming pulse, pounding in her ears.
It wasn’t until she found herself staring out the bedroom window that she even realized she had walked wordlessly out of the room. After a few minutes Frank came to find her.
“That was a hasty exit.” His expression was ambiguous. “I don’t think I would count it among your most gracious moments.”
Joanna was stunned. She couldn’t believe he was scolding her.
“I realize Gigi goes overboard,” he said, managing to sound both weary and patronizing. “We both know that, and you should have expected it, to some degree. Yes, she should have asked about flying the kids to London, but that’s just Gigi—she likes to make the grand gesture. Once you have a chance to think it over, you’ll see it’s a fine idea. I don’t think she’ll ever have kids of her own. You can’t hold it against her for wanting to be closer to ours.”
Joanna just stared at him, her indignation rendering her speechless.
He drew a deep breath and slid his hands into his pants pockets, a nervous habit that was becoming ever more familiar. “Well, I hope you’re coming down for dinner. It would certainly be awkward if you didn’t. It’s Christmas, after all. Or a reasonable facsimile.”
She turned to the window, silent, and Frank retreated without further comment—presumably to the more welcoming environs of the dining room.
Not only did Joanna not appear at the table, she was conspicuously absent from their bed that night, taking full advantage of the resplendent array of guest rooms at her avail. In the morning, she stayed in the room long past the breakfast hour. Someone would have told the children she had a headache, she supposed, or wasn’t feeling well. In the moment, she didn’t care. At about eleven o’clock, she slipped out of the house for a long walk. She needed to get away, to clear her head. She didn’t admit any particular destination. She wandered first around the town, up Center and down Broad, and back to Market Street—a transparent play to legitimize her intent, to prove she simply needed space and solitude, a little distance to deal with her feelings. She wouldn’t concede—even to herself—that she was headed to St. Gregory’s. That she needed to talk to Daniel.
When she saw him shoveling the front walk, her relief was so palpable, she felt a conflicted sort of shame. An instinctive propriety warned her to pull the brake cord on her runaway emotions, to honor some implicit marital compact of privacy. And so, when he straightened and saw her, she just smiled.
He was smiling back. “Come inside.”
Joanna was shivering, but the invitation gave her pause. “Oh, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want to impose on anyone.”
“It’s no imposition—I could use a break. Let’s have some tea. Warm up. Gran’s not here—she bullied Gramps into taking her over to Pottsville to see her sister—but I make a decent cup.”
There it was—the necessary information. Without acknowledging it, she needed to know that Doe and Nico were out. Thus reassured, she followed Daniel toward the house, stepping carefully across the neatly shoveled brick walk.
As they neared the back door, her eyes fell on the anonymous little grave marker that Daisy had discovered the past summer. Even half covered in snow, something about it held a strange magnetism. It wasn’t alone in the yard, what with the barbecue grill and a small iron table within spitting distance, yet it was ever so lonely. BABY HAYES.
“Gran won’t talk about that one. She’ll tell you a story about practically everyone in here, but never Baby Hayes.” Daniel had stepped back, and his shoulder brushed against hers.
“Do you think she knows? It’s so close to the house—surely that means something.”
“She has to know. There are records on everybody, at least for the past hundred years or so. And this marker isn’t that old. I even asked Gramps about it, but you know Nico—he just grunted and said it nobody’s business but God’s.”
Joanna was quiet for a moment, and then she ventured a question. “Maybe Hayes isn’t a surname. Are you sure your mother was their only child?”
Daniel was ahead of her. “If I ran a graveyard and my child died, that baby would have a headstone the size of a shed and a twenty-line inscription.”
“Well, you know what they say about the shoemaker’s children.…”
“But why the secrecy then?”
“You’re right—it doesn’t make sense.”
“Anyway, it will still be here in the spring, and then you can stand here thinking about it all you want without having to wipe the frost off your lip.” He took her by the arm to lead her to the house, and she had to face the disturbing fact that she liked it.
Inside, she gazed around at the kitchen. The stove was a relic, and there was still an old wooden icebox in the corner, but yellow gingham on the windows and red linoleum on the floor gave the room a sunny disposition. “This is lovely—so cheery and bright.” Joanna had long been curious about the interior of Grange House, and she glanced toward the hall. “I’d love to see the rest of it.…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at the door, giving her apprehension away.
And Daniel was right there to gather it up and dispose of it, reading between the lines with his usual grasp. “Gran could tell you everything you would ever want to know about this place, but you’d have to wait. They won’t be back for a while. I can give you the nickel tour, if you’re not too picky.”
There was a warm little flicker in her chest—an awareness of his awareness. “I’m not picky.”
“Let me get the tea, and we can take it with us.” He put a kettle on the stove, and lifted a Delft canister from a shelf on the wall. As he took the tea bags out, he looked at her evenly, imparting something more than just casual inquiry. “How was Christmas?”
She hesitated. She knew he meant Pennsport. She had told him about Gigi’s imposition, and about Susannah’s surprising intervention. But despite the fact that she had gotten what she wanted, things had been a bit tense. It wasn’t Frank’s fault. From the beginning, he had embraced her parents with familiar ease—teasing her mother with the nickname Eileen Forward, (assuring her it was better than Eileen Backward), sipping beer on the front porch with her father as the radio piped the Phillies game into warm summer nights, and—most recently—withstanding the cramped torture of her girlhood bed without so much as a grumble.
But her mother had a dowsing rod that could divin
e a teardrop in the heart of the Venus de Milo, and it hadn’t been more than a day—while the men were off with the kids in search of a fat Norway pine—before she poured another cup of coffee for Joanna and sat down across from her.
There were holiday place mats on the table—red plastic with a border of green holly. Joanna’s hand rested on one, index finger hooked through the handle of her coffee cup. Her mother reached over and covered it with her own. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
She didn’t see it coming. Whenever they spoke on the phone, Joanna was conscientiously cheery—a conditioned avoidance of unsolicited concern. She hadn’t considered how much she would be willing to confide if pressed. She didn’t want to impugn Frank or tarnish her mother’s estimation of their marriage—there was a decent chance this was just a bump in the road. Gazing at her coffee cup, she weighed the consequences. She knew she’d have to offer something. Once Eileen Rafferty had you in her sights, there was no escaping.
“Same old gypsy, same old crystal ball.” Her smile was weak. “Since you asked, I’ll admit things have been a little … tough.” Tipping her head to the side, she pushed her fingers to her temple. “I guess I’m just frustrated. It feels like I don’t have any … autonomy. I mean, I’m really just a perpetual guest. I don’t have a”—she cast around the room, looking for the word—“domain.” She sighed. “I don’t how else to explain it. I feel like I’m disappearing. Does that sound crazy?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Maybe it would be different if Frank were there more. But sometimes I don’t feel like I’m even married.” Suddenly her eyes welled. By giving form to her feelings, they took on extra weight, and fell on her shoulders like a thick shawl. “I just have this life now that … that doesn’t even seem like it’s mine.”
Squeezing her daughter’s hand, Eileen made a little tsk sound. “I know it’s hard, Jo, but think about Frank. He has to be away from his wife and his kids. To earn for his family.”