by Brian Hodge
Rob adjusted his glasses carefully. Evan, who was lying on the floor with a book cradled between his forearms, only lifted his head long enough to show her a shrug.
“Good God, people, I could have been killed!”
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “It was nothing more than joyriders, or whatever they call those idiots these days. A woman alone in a car, a dark night … someone from the college, most likely, that’s all. Good grief, Cynthia, this is Oxrun Station, not someplace like Detroit. You weren’t in any real danger at all.”
“Mother,” she began, was cut off by her father’s look.
“You were drinking at the Cove,” he reminded her. “And I suspect you hadn’t eaten yet, either. Your sensations were heightened and some fool kid only aggravated them, like your mother said.” He smiled, reached for her hand and patted it twice. “Relax, my girl. Take it easy.”
She had almost thought to argue further until she noticed the smirk on Rob’s face and realized then how foolish she must have seemed.
More so now as she watched a series of high-columned clouds lumber across the startlingly blue sky. And below, on the lawn, a flock of agitated blackbirds scurrying over the grass in cockheaded search of an early meal. From where she stood, she could easily imagine herself coasting in a small plane, watching a herd of dark cattle grazing in a field. She grinned. Imagination. A useful commodity had she been a writer or a teacher or someone in research. But, as she felt a swelling of gas burn in her stomach, she knew that her father had been right in his explanation. No food, the drink, the nerves about the shop. Her tolerance for liquor was remarkably low, most especially wine. It generally did not take more than a glass or two to dull her, make her drowsy. And in a way, she considered it a blessing. She had never been able to take enough to get drunk; she always fell asleep first, to the dismay of her escorts.
Nevertheless, the experience had been frightening, and if she ever caught the driver who had played games with her nerves …
She shook her head vigorously and reached up to stretch, feeling the dried perspiration of her nightmares pulling at her skin. She grimaced her disgust and ran a hand lightly over her stomach as if her palm could sponge that away too. Then, after a final look at the trees and the yard—and a fleeting image of her shack—she hurried into the marbled bathroom and took a long steaming shower. Dressed. Took the stairs down two at a time.
She was whistling when she reached the dining room, stopped when she saw her mother the only one there, lingering over a cup of coffee and a piece of burnt toast. She grinned. Ever since the staff had been dismissed—where had she been then? In Rome? In Venice?—Myrtle had tried to live up to the enviable reputation Iris Lennon had left behind her. She never quite made it, however, according to Cyd’s brothers, and it had not been long before meals in the house became a haphazard matter, each of the children virtually scurrying to get their own food before their mother assaulted what remained of the larder.
She stood at the sideboard and from a pewter pot poured herself coffee, sat opposite her mother at the long walnut table and watched her. Blue eyes met blue, and the older woman smiled.
“Are you feeling better, dear?”
“Silly,” she said, using the coffee’s aroma to waken her first. She spooned in sugar, stirred idly, and waited.
“Well, I shouldn’t feel too silly if I were you,” her mother said with a brief wave of an unringed hand. “I remember when your father and I, we were about your age, I think, we were driving down to New York. In what poor Angus wants to believe were the good old days. Highways, of course, weren’t the same then. They were a good deal smaller, and lots of nice scenery. They also acted like launching pads, of course they didn’t have them in those days either, launching pads for a million trucks. Huge things, I remember. Moving so fast they were gone before you could blink.
“I remember … yes, if memory serves, it was snowing, not too badly, but snowing I think it was, and this idiot milk tanker thing, the ones that look like oil trucks, it rode our tail for at least five miles once we’d crossed the state line. Your father, of course, he wouldn’t budge at all, wouldn’t give the man an inch, not on his life. He wouldn’t move over to let the man pass, and he wouldn’t speed up to give us some distance in case he had to stop short. That,” she said with a touch to the paisley kerchief that bound her hair tightly, “is when I started to go grey. I swear, Cynthia, he nudged us once, but don’t tell your father I said that because he’ll swear I was drunk at the time.”
“Were you?” Her expression was pure innocence though her lips worked at a smile.
Myrtle laughed. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth, it was so long ago now. But, between you and me, I probably was.”
“You don’t drink much these days, though, do you?”
Myrtle looked at her sharply, dropped her gaze to her cup where she studied the swirls of light and dark. “When the occasion demands,” she said after a moment. “Will you be hanging around the house tonight, dear?”
Cyd remembered the party and stifled a premonition. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably not. There’s a film over in Harley I’d like to see. James Bond takes on the world again. I don’t know. Why?” As if, she thought, I didn’t know.
Myrtle shrugged a poor indifference. “Well, it should be rather interesting for a change, dear. I’d…well, frankly, I’d like you to stick around for a while, if you don’t mind, of course. If you would. I really … I would like very much for you to meet Doctor Kraylin. Your moods these days—”
“There is nothing wrong with any of my moods,” Cyd said, more sharply than she’d wanted. “It’s this ridiculous changeable weather. And the holidays. You know that, Mother. Thanksgiving, Christmas; times of joy and sadness, as some poet once said on the back of a greeting card. I’ve only been back a couple of months. I’m still getting reoriented. This is hardly Oxford Circus, you know. The sun’s out now, though. I feel much better, really I do.”
“Well, I want you to meet him anyway. I think you’ll like him. He’s … different.”
Cyd watched her mother’s eyes for a moment, not entirely sure she’d heard the tone she thought. Then she lowered her head and looked up at her. “Mother,” she said in a good-natured warning, “are you trying to do what I think you’re trying to do?”
Myrtle instantly raised her hands, palms out, and shook her head. “Me? I’m your mother, Cynthia. What you do with your life is your own business. That has always been my credo—”
“Credo?”
“—and I try to live by it.”
“Sure, Mother. Do what I want, as long as I’m married while I get about it.”
“Now, Cynthia, I didn’t say that.”
Cyd kept her comments to herself while Myrtle reached for a pitcher of water and poured herself a glass. Water slopped over the rim, staining the linen place mat, and she clucked as she pushed the glass to one side, knocked it with her elbow and sent it shattering to the floor. Cyd rose, sat again when hissed at, heard a muttered curse when Myrtle reached over to pick up the pieces.
“You all right? You want—”
Myrtle sat up again, sucking at one finger. “No problem, dear. Caught a piece in my hand, that’s all. I’ll live. I won’t bleed to death, if that’s what you’re worried about. “She took a handkerchief from her hip pocket and wrapped it tightly around the wound, grinning and wincing alternately until the bandaging was done.
“Mother,” she said, pointing at the cloth, “that’s an expensive—”
“Big deal, so it stains. I’ve got hundreds, you know.”
“Sure.” She watched the finger morbidly, almost hoping for blood, then gave it up and emptied her cup. “All right, then. I think I’m off.”
“What about tonight?”
“Mother, you’re impossible, and I love you, too.” She rose, rounded the table and kissed the woman solidly on top of her head. “You win, though. I’ll stick around to meet this guy, if you really want me to.”
<
br /> “He’s a doctor.”
“Good for him. Maybe he can have a look at your back.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my back, young lady.”
“Sure, Mother, whatever you say.”
The silence could have been awkward, but Cyd moved on quickly, not stopping until she reached the hall. “By the way, I think I’ll be dropping in on Iris and Paul this afternoon, if anyone wants me.”
Myrtle set her cup carefully on its saucer, so slowly Cyd had to blink to be sure that it had moved. “Now why would you want to do a thing like that?”
“Why not?” she said, pushing her hair back from her forehead. “Actually, I had a dream about them last night, and I haven’t gone to see them since I’ve been back, so …” and she shrugged.
“What about your shop? Shouldn’t you be doing something there?” When her daughter stared, Myrtle only allowed a slow, unrepentant smile. “Your father never keeps secrets well, dear. When he came back grousing about Angus, I gave him a brandy, sat in his lap, and …”
“Well?”
“Well what? You want my approval? All right, you have it. You want me to argue, you’re crazy. I’m too old to argue with you, and besides, you’re not stuffy enough to do what your brothers do.”
“Mother!”
“They may be my children, dear, but I know they’re stuffy.”
Cyd left behind a cloud of laughter, not realizing until she noted the empty stalls in the garage that she hadn’t seen her brothers at all since last night. Saturdays aren’t sacred anymore, she thought sadly as she drove off the estate; used to be you could sleep until noon and not care who knew it. Times change, old girl, times change.
But not the Lennons.
They had come in from Hartford when she was ten, stayed on until only a few months before she’d finished her tour. Iris: tall, thin, so inordinately fleshless she barely cast a shadow, so deft in the kitchen she’d had dozens of offers from cosmopolitan restaurants to dessert service and come into her own; she was also laconic to the point of spawning a rumor she was, in fact, mute. And Paul, her husband; as tall, as lean, somewhat confused by the times he lived through, and as garrulous as his wife was silent when the need arose and the gossip was fruitful. In all the years Cyd had known them— and from what she’d learned of their previous life—they had never been separated, not even for a night. And, curiously, Iris never cooked for herself at all. Once the Yarrows’ meals were done, Paul took over, often panting in from the gardens just in time to duck Iris’ glare.
Cyd had never known who among the children had been the Lennon’s favorite, though there had to have been one. She always suspected it had to have been Rob, if only because of his own taciturn temper, so much like Paul’s when the old man was alone.
Ten minutes later she turned off Chancellor Avenue onto Hartwell Place, a one-block street, the last in the Station before the three-mile stretch to the railroad depot. The houses here were quiet, were old, were more shades of white and grey with black trim than she’d thought was possible in such a short space. There were no children here, nor pets of any note. It was, instead, a place of great spreading trees, of fragmented shade, of rose bushes and lawns and lemonade on the porch.
The Lennon’s home was in the block’s center, and she pulled into the graveled drive with more than a touch of nerves and anticipation. The house was a single-story, with a peeling plaster fawn beside the front stoop, and a series of thick hanging plants now browned by the weather, hung from the clapboard from the door to the screened porch that bordered the drive. She sat, watched, saw no signs of living and wondered suddenly if perhaps she shouldn’t have called them first.
Iris would be reserved no matter what happened; but Paul needed time to gather himself— his clothes and his mind never could take surprises.
A curtain fluttered in the house next door, and Cyd grinned as she slid from the car and moved to the front door. There was the unmistakable aroma, then, of baked bread and homemade soups, biscuits and cookies she knew were only memories, but she was glad that the memories at least still had not changed.
She rang the bell, waited, was about to ring a second time when she heard someone calling from around the back. She hesitated, then moved quickly to the drive, trying to walk as quietly as possible along the gentle curve that swung to a garage at the house’s far side. The lawn was vaguely unkempt, and at the edge of the grass were two wicker chairs; and in them the Lennon’s; bundled to the neck, each wearing a woolen cap pulled down to their ears.
She stopped and smiled, hands clasped in front.
They watched her for several long seconds before Paul suddenly launched himself from his chair, pale lips grinning as his hands took hers and held them.
“Be darned, Iris,” he said without turning around. “Be darned and damnation, it’s Miss Cindy back to us for a chat.”
Iris, unchanged, only nodded. Once in recognition. She wore thick-lensed glasses that reflected the house, hiding her eyes though her mouth finally curled into a welcoming smile as her husband led Cyd to his chair and bade her sit. Then he stood facing the both of them, hands tight behind his back.
“My Lord,” he said, looking quickly from the girl to his wife. “My Lord, it’s been … well, it’s been over a year, hasn’t it, dear?”
Iris nodded.
Like a movie set, Cyd thought as she examined the paint peeling from the house, the uncut browning grass, the clutter by the garage. The front is one thing, the back another.
“What do you say, Missy?”
She broadened the smile that was splitting her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Paul, I was thinking. What did you say?”
“He said,” Iris whispered, “would you like something to drink?”
“No. No, but thanks.” She gestured at the chairs, then, and the weak setting sun. “Isn’t it awfully cold to be sitting out here like this? I’d think you’d catch your death.”
Paul, his neck wrapped in a crimson muffler that matched to a shade his quilted hunting jacket, chuckled and shook his head. “Sun’s the best for you, Missy, even this time of year. We try to get at least an hour a day. Vitamin D, you understand.” He paused as if waiting for Iris to comment, then squatted easily to his haunches and made a fist of both hands. “Well, what brings you here, Missy? You don’t mind if we still call you Missy, do you? A lot of years’ habit that one is. You certainly have better things to do than see old fogies like us.”
“Ain’t old,” Iris said.
“True enough,” he said quickly.
They waited.
While she tried to inspect them without seeming rude. At least in their middle-seventies they were but apparently still well in control. Paul’s hawked nose was slightly red, Iris’ stub peeling dry skin: no purple beneath the eyes, the chins if anything even more pointed, and not even Paul could hide the taut wattles. The crusty New England stereotype, she thought; and if people didn’t know their names, didn’t know them by sight, then seeing them together would give them pause—from one to the other their sex was hidden.
The distant cry of the afternoon train fit snugly into the November silence, and it was several minutes more before Cyd suddenly began to talk without introduction: about the store, her sometimes ludicrous struggles to come up with a name, the afternoons she’d spent in the toy store with Dale Blake learning what it took to run a small business. “Of course,” she added, “there are special things that come with just the books. I sent for I don’t know how many pamphlets and things from the Small Business people, and went to a couple of government seminars over in Hartford just before I left the country. I don’t know if I can do it, or at least do it right, but I do know one thing—I’m going to need some help.”
“College kids,” Iris suggested tersely. “They’re always looking for things to do. Come around here twice, three times a week wanting the odd job, things like that. Paul sends them away. I don’t trust them.”
“Right,” Paul said with nod for emphasis.
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Another short pause while Cyd waited for her courage. Then, “Do you two like it here? Really like it, I mean?” and knew her hunch had been right when she saw the look that passed between them. The Lennon’s had worked for too many years, were too wrapped in the Protestant Ethic to enjoy their new life. They were bored, and from the looks of the house and grounds, they didn’t have enough money to do anything about it.
“All right, then,” she said, smiling and leaning forward with her arms on her knees. “I want to try to open a week from Monday, to catch the tail end of the Christmas season if I can. I’m going to need your help, Paul, Iris. I’d like … well, I’d really be pleased if you two could come and work with me.”
“Hate charity,” Paul said immediately, rising to stand behind his wife.
“It isn’t charity, and you know it,” she said sternly, more to Iris than to him. “I talked with Bella Innes, you know—she works with Dale in the toy store?—and she told me how you two have been dropping in on Mr. Carlegger now and then.”
“Fat old busybody,” Paul said angrily.
“Oh, hush up,” Iris told him, and pulled off her glasses. Her eyes, watery and pale, searched for Cyd, found her and held. “Your father has been very kind to us, Missy. He didn’t have to give us a pension, but he did. ’Course, now that he has a little trouble he can’t always pay. Now, Mr. Carlegger, he runs a pretty good place for getting folks jobs, we know that. Trouble is, we’re of an age, you know, and—” She looked helplessly toward the house, and Cyd rose at once, clapping her hands.
“It’s settled, then. My first shipment should be coming in on Wednesday. Shall I see you at the shop, ten o’clock?”
“So late?” Paul said, his grin grotesquely wide.
“Plenty early enough until I get used to it, you miserable slave driver,” she said. Impulsively, then, she kissed Iris’ cheek and shook Paul’s hand firmly. The silence that followed was tinged with grateful embarrassment, and she hurried away before the moment was spoiled. As an afterthought, she turned at the corner of the porch and called back to Paul, “I was thinking about talking to Wallace, too. Does he still live off King Street, down by the hospital?”