Tigers in Red Weather

by Liza Klaussmann

  “No,” Aunt Nick said, not looking at him.

  “Don’t tell me that all this is enough. That it’s ever been enough for you. I’m not blind, Nick.”

  “You have to stop this, Tyler. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression …”

  “God, I want to kiss you.”

  “Don’t force me to hurt Daisy.” Aunt Nick’s voice had a sort of pleading tone. “If you care about either one of us …”

  “You think I want to hurt her? But she’s just not like us. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just the way it is.”

  “It is somebody’s fault,” Aunt Nick said, wildly. “It’s my fault. Oh god, this is all my fault.”

  Tyler moved in to kiss her, but I didn’t wait around to watch; I had already seen enough to know what was going on. It was what was always going on with Aunt Nick.

  I had to wait until the following night, but I did go see Frank Wilcox. I found his address in the telephone book. He was living in Katama, and I had to bike out there. It was around midnight and there was no moon, so the road was very dark, but I managed to find his drive.

  It was a modest house, set a ways back from the road, a new-build from the looks of it. He’d obviously come down in the world. I did a little reconnaissance and found the downstairs was one big room, with a small kitchen off to the back. The nights were getting cooler, but their windows were still open. I pulled out my old Swiss Army knife, the one Uncle Hughes had given me, and cut the screen out of its frame. After taking off my Docksiders, I stepped inside.

  The wooden floor was cool beneath my feet and I felt calm and well. The furniture looked rented, although there were some framed pictures on the mantel. A wedding and a vacation, Mexico, maybe. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the wife looked young; Daisy’s age.

  There wasn’t much to see, but I made a quick stop in the kitchen to grab a garbage bag, just in case.

  The stairs were carpeted, so there was no problem keeping quiet as I headed up to the bedrooms. At the top, I looked around. There were three doors, two of which were closed. One would be a bathroom and the other their bedroom. It was a bit of a conundrum. I pressed my ear to one and didn’t hear anything. Ditto with the other. I decided the door in the middle was most likely the bathroom, so I chose the one on the end.

  Turning the glass knob until I felt it hit the latch, I carefully opened the door. It was a lucky thing the house was new; no squeaky hinges or swollen wood. But I realized what a stupid thing it had been to come on impulse, without checking anything out first.

  The bed was only a few feet away from me. The woman was closest, her dark hair spread out like a fan on the pillow. She had her hands tucked under her head, and a bare shoulder peeked out from the quilt. She was young, and not particularly pretty. I put my hand out, very slowly, and touched a stray lock of her hair. It was soft, like a mouse.

  I moved around to the other side of the bed, lightly fingering the trash bag. Frank was turned away from his wife, his face toward the window in the far wall.

  As I stood over him, I could see, even in the dim light, how much he’d aged. He looked frail, old even. Thin, gray hair fell sparsely over his forehead. His mouth was open and he was snoring lightly. There was a shadow on his pillow where his drool had collected.

  I had a strange feeling, standing there. Disappointment, and a little anger. He was more my father than anyone, and I’d always imagined him forever strong and unwavering; his hands around Elena’s throat in an instant, not a moment’s hesitation. And yet, here was this old man, snoring away in his house full of rented furniture, totally unaware that a stranger had broken in and was watching him sleep.

  I looked at the trash bag. It wasn’t even worth it. I wanted to talk to him, to ask him what had happened, to find out how he’d turned into this innocuous, broken nothingness. But I knew I couldn’t. So instead, I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and removed the worn pack of matches from the Hideaway that I always kept with me. Carefully, I laid them on the bedside table, and then, taking one last look at the man who had made me, I left the room.

  1969: OCTOBER

  I remember asking Daisy about love once, what it felt like, and she said it was like tennis. I think she meant she had the same feeling when she was playing tennis, but for a long time I imagined two players squaring off, each trying to score points against the other. Over the last year or so, as I’ve lain in hospital after hospital, listening to doctors drone and nurses twitter, while they try to fix me, I’ve had a lot of time to think and remember. And now, in this one, with its walls the color of mint ice cream, a different image has been coming to mind. In this one, there is a man, a woman, and a dark staircase. And what happens there is love at its most honest because, just as I have long suspected, it is brutal and sudden, and the damage is permanent.

  It was last summer, the summer after I made my visit to Frank Wilcox, and I returned to Tiger House in early June. Daisy and Tyler were still unmarried, a “long engagement,” she called it. “Ty’s just so busy,” she had told me when I asked her about it the Christmas before, and I had allowed myself to be lulled into believing that it might not come off at all. But the wedding was set for August and, by June, there were no signs that a breakup was imminent. So, my mind started turning over the Aunt Nick–Tyler problem again.

  On the ferry trip over to the Island, I tried to come up with a solution. I ordered a coffee and took it up on deck to think. It was early afternoon, a Saturday, and the Island Queen was full of day-trippers and hippies. I put on my Ray-Bans so I wouldn’t have to squint, and turned my mind to the task.

  Obviously, getting rid of Tyler was the most appealing option. But it was risky. For one thing, he was a man, and pretty strong, which meant I would have to catch him by surprise and things would have a good chance of turning ugly. Secondly, Daisy wanted him. I didn’t understand why, but I understood what it felt like to want something and I didn’t want to take that away from her.

  Aunt Nick would be easier to get alone. Some evening, in the dark, on the stringpiece of the yacht club, she might just go over into the harbor. Or perhaps a swimming accident off the dock. Everyone knew that when she drank too much she went for night swims.

  But I didn’t want to kill Aunt Nick. It wasn’t because I liked her. Maybe it had something to do with her being such a strong force. Or perhaps it was that, despite all her duplicity, she made our lives more stimulating. I don’t know. All I know is that I found my mind stalling at the thought of it.

  I remembered watching her have sex with that musician all those years before. She had wrapped one of her legs around him as he lay on top of her and was stroking his neck softly. But the expression on her face. It was full of hatred, or disgust. Either way, it was so feral that, for a moment, I thought she might tear him apart.

  I was thinking about this when a girl next to me leaned over and said: “Excuse me, do you have a light?”

  I reached in my pocket. I always kept a lighter on hand for situations like these. I looked at her as I lit her cigarette. She had pale hair and was wearing a big floppy straw hat that cast a shadow over her shoulders. She had freckles.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I found her immediately intriguing. She was carrying a map of the Island, the kind they gave out at the tourist office in Woods Hole.

  “Is it your first trip to the Island?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. She looked at me from under her hat, a quick look and then away.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At a bed-and-breakfast in Oak Bluffs.”

  She pretended to be busy with her map, so I didn’t ask her any more questions. Instead, I waited. Then I took my trusty book of poems out of my bag and started flipping through the pages. I felt her look over at me again.

  “Oh,” she said after a while, “William Blake.”

  “Yes,” I said, looking up.

  “I love him. Ginsberg says he’s a prophet.”

 
I just looked at her.

  “Well, that’s what he says, anyway.”

  “Why a prophet?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I don’t actually know.”

  I smiled.

  “I’m sorry. I’m bothering you.”

  “You’re not bothering me.”

  “I’m Penny,” she said.

  “Ed.”

  “Listen, would you mind watching my bag while I go to the bathroom?” She adjusted her hat so she could see me better.

  “I’ll watch your bag,” I said.

  I watched her walk off toward the door that led down to the lower deck. Her feet pointed inward. Pigeon toes. I pulled her bag closer to me and, undoing the zipper an inch or so, slipped my hand inside. I felt something silky and pulled it out. It was a scarf with small roses on it, the kind a grandmother would wear. I put it in my blazer pocket for later.

  I leaned back and felt the sun on my face. I thought about how many bed-and-breakfasts there might be in Oak Bluffs, and began making a list of the ones I knew offhand. Then I heard the ferry’s horn, signaling our approach to the dock, and realized I still hadn’t come up with any kind of plan for the problem awaiting me at home.

  I hear the nurse’s shoes against the linoleum before I actually see her. Swish, swish. Then her face is suddenly looming over me. She smiles when she sees my eyes are open.

  “It’s a big day today,” she says, smoothing down my sheet and blanket. “Visiting day.”

  She checks my fluids.

  “You’re a lucky young man, you know,” she says.

  I would laugh if I could.

  “Not everyone has a mother like yours. Some of them never have a visitor, not ever. Shame.” She blows air out of her mouth and disappears from my sight line for a moment.

  Then I hear her voice from somewhere near the door, disembodied. “But not you. Every Thursday like clockwork.”

  We have this conversation every Thursday, like clockwork. At this point, even if I could speak, I probably wouldn’t need to say anything.

  Suddenly her face is over mine again, like a balloon.

  “Would you like to hear the radio?” She switches it on and leaves the room.

  “This is Ten-Ten-WINS. You give us twenty-two minutes, we’ll give you the world.

  “Police investigating the murder of a San Francisco Yellow Cab driver several days ago now have evidence that the killer may be the same man responsible for four unsolved murders in the Bay Area over the past year.

  “The San Francisco Chronicle has received a letter from someone identifying themselves as the Zodiac along with a piece of bloodstained cloth that appears to have been cut from the latest victim’s shirt. Police are running laboratory tests on the material to see whether it matches the victim’s blood type.

  “In a chilling message, the author of the letter taunts police, saying: ‘This is the Zodiac speaking. I am the murderer of the taxi driver over by Washington Street and Maple Street. The S.F. police could have caught me last night if they had searched the park properly.’ The investigation is continuing.”

  What a grandstander. They’ve been running this story for months now and I’m kind of surprised they haven’t caught him yet. He isn’t very careful. And frankly, I find him a little tiresome. There doesn’t appear to be any real integrity in his work.

  Still, it’s better than staring at the ceiling, I suppose. I wish they would open the window in here. I’d like to smell the air.

  Tiger House was quiet when I arrived and I figured they must all be at the beach. I brought my bag upstairs to my bedroom and put my things away. I folded up Penny’s scarf and placed it under my pillow. I was reading the timetable for the bus to Oak Bluffs when I thought I heard a noise coming from Daisy’s room down the hall. I found Daisy pulling things out of her closet and laying them on her bed. All her treasures. The large stuffed animal she had gotten at the West Tisbury fair and some old makeup and comic books. On the floor was a brown cardboard box.

  The air smelled fresh, full of the scent from the flowering tree outside her window.

  She looked up and saw me, giving a small jump and laying her hand over her heart.

  “Oh, Ed,” she said. Then she crossed the room and kissed my cheek. “When did you get here? I would have picked you up at the ferry if I’d known.”

  “I took a taxi,” I said. “Where is everyone?”

  “I made Mummy take Tyler out on the boat to get him out of my hair, and Daddy’s gone to the Reading Room for cards. And your mother.” She stopped. “Actually I have no idea where your mother is. So, it’s just me and you.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Daisy went back into the closet and reappeared with more trinkets.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, just clearing things out. Making room for Tyler. We’re going to haul out these old twin beds and get a nice new double bed for when we’re married.” She smiled. “Besides, it’s probably time to get rid of this junk.”

  I walked over to the bed and looked down at the collection. I remembered how angry she was when I told her I’d found her hiding place. I picked up an old bottle of nail polish. Then I saw the arrowhead I’d given her, lying among the things destined for the cardboard box. My vision blurred a little.

  “Still, I do love this room just the way it is.” She looked around. “The old wallpaper and the albizia tree. I’m being silly, but I’m a little sad about changing it.”

  “It’s not silly,” I said.

  Daisy sighed.

  “What are you going to do with your collection?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Throw it out, I guess.”

  She went back into the closet before popping her head out again. “Can you believe, in two months, I’ll be an old married lady. Maybe I should invite Peaches to the wedding.”

  “So you’re going to do it, then?”

  “Do what?”

  “Marry him.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Of course I’m going to marry him.”

  I picked up the arrowhead and rubbed it between my fingers. “I don’t think you should,” I said.

  She gave me a keen look and sat down on the bed. “Ed, I realize Ty’s not your absolute favorite. But I love him.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Anyway,” she said. “Nothing’s going to change. Not really.”

  “I still don’t think you should marry him.”

  “Besides the fact that you don’t like him, give me one good reason.” She sounded a little angry now.

  It was the moment to come clean. But I wasn’t sure she was ready.

  “Well?” she said.

  “He loves your mother.”

  “Ed, honestly. Are you still banging that old drum?” She laughed.

  I looked at her. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  As she looked back, her expression changed. I’d seen that change before, when it dawns on someone that what is about to happen is very different from what they expected to happen. “Why would you say something like that to me?” She said it almost in a whisper.

  “Because it’s true,” I said. “I’ve seen them.”

  “Ed Lewis, you shut your mouth,” she said. But she got up from the bed and went over to the window, running her hand down the screen, and I knew she knew the truth in what I was saying. The thing was, she’d always known it.

  After a minute, she turned back toward me. “I really don’t understand,” she said slowly. “I don’t know why you’d want to hurt me like this.”

  When I didn’t say anything, she pushed past me and walked out of the room. I looked down at the arrowhead in my hand. I went to drop it in the cardboard box, but the idea of doing that made my hand shake, so I put it in my pocket instead.

  As I left the room, I found my mother outside the door. I knew she’d been listening. I could tell.

  She was smiling. “Hello, Ed, dearest.”

  “Go have a cocktail, Mother,” I said and left
her standing there, gaping.

  “Look who’s here,” the nurse says. “I told you.”

  Then I see my mother’s face. Her eyes are soft. She looks older, older even than last week.

  “Hello, dearest,” she says, and brushes the hair off my forehead.

  I don’t like it when she touches me.

  “How’s he doing?” my mother asks the nurse.

  “Oh, just fine,” the nurse says. “The doctor will be in for a chat in a minute.”

  Then we’re alone. My mother turns off the radio and pulls a chair up next to me.

  “So,” my mother says. “Let’s see. It’s been a busy week. I’ve been helping Carl set up his offices in the house in Oak Bluffs. I told you about that, didn’t I, dearest? I know I’ve told you about Carl. Well, he found a place in Oak Bluffs, where he can set up an office, a sort of outpost, for his church. Carl says that ever since Teddy Kennedy killed that poor girl over in Chappy, the church has realized that there are so many people in need of help on the Island. And they picked him to run it. We met at the hardware store, just like your father. I was going to buy a lightbulb and he was there getting cleaning supplies. But I’ve told you that.”

  My mother sighs and gets up. She walks over to the window.

  “He’s so committed,” she continues, “and he’s been teaching me so many interesting things about myself, about self-actualizing and how so much of my past and even my past lives have been blocking me from moving on to the next level. I’m going to begin my auditing soon. Oh, Ed, dearest, he’s so intelligent.”

  I’ve had to listen to a lot about this Carl fellow since my mother met him in August. Aunt Nick used to call my father a charlatan when she thought we weren’t listening. I wonder what she’d say about my mother’s new beau.

  It seems all sorts of strange people have been drawn to the Island because of the Kennedy incident. Reporters, thrill seekers, religious nuts. I heard his speech on the radio, Teddy Kennedy. He said he had wondered, after he left that girl to drown in the car, whether the Kennedy family was really cursed. It reminded me of Daisy, how she thought we had been cursed after we found Elena Nunes. Funnily enough, my mother told me that Teddy Kennedy had even gone to the Hideaway to hole up before realizing he had no choice but to go to the police. I wonder what Sheriff Mello made of that.