Enchanting Lily

by Anjali Banerjee

  She landed on a page that shimmered, almost as if the ink were made of crushed silver. The poem was “Ode to the Clothes” by Pablo Neruda. He wrote of becoming one with his clothing, and Lily realized that her comfortable cotton pajamas, with little lighthouses printed on them, had become one with her, too. They’d carried her through the blissful nights with Josh; then through the anguished, sleepless nights following his death; then through the restless nights while she’d dealt with the complicated maze of arrangements—his will, the memorial service, the estate sale. She’d never appreciated the comfort of these pajamas until now.

  She closed the book, and she’d just put it on the bedside table and turned off the lamp when she heard a scratching sound, as if a mouse scuttled through the walls. She sat up in the darkness, her heart pounding. Of course, there had to be a drawback to this peaceful abode. Rodents in the walls. She held her breath and listened, but the scratching had stopped.

  She let out her breath and lay down again, gazing wide-eyed at the moving shadows on the ceiling. The scratching started again, but distantly, like an animal trying to get in or out of somewhere. What if a raccoon or squirrel had become trapped in that ramshackle shed?

  No, the scratching came from downstairs. She got out of bed, put on her robe and slippers, and headed down the wide wooden staircase, sidestepping boxes and turning on lights. Josh had always investigated unusual noises. He’d grabbed a baseball bat that he kept by the nightstand, although he hadn’t liked baseball. Had he really expected to whack someone with that thing? Without a violent bone in his body?

  Now she felt the weight of her singular responsibility. Rats, mice, bees in the walls. Dealing with the messiness of life was all up to her.

  The scratching came from outside the front door, on the porch. She peered out through the peephole but saw nothing. She tried peeking through the front bay window, but she couldn’t see onto the porch. What if she opened the door to find a rabid raccoon ready to attack? That’s when she heard the meow—a plaintive, piercing sound but unmistakable. A cat.

  Instantly Lily thought, Poor thing, alone out there. Was it a stray? Feral? Or merely a local resident? Was a predator chasing the cat? Maybe a dog or coyote? Nothing appeared to be moving in the yard, but she knew she would be foolish to open the door. Anything could be waiting in the darkness.

  “Go on home!” she called out. “It’s the middle of the night.” The scratching only became louder and more persistent. Another meow. Maybe the cat was hungry.

  Lily rapped gently on the wood, and the scratching stopped. Through the front window, she could see the white cat running down the walkway and disappearing into the bushes. What irresponsible pet owner would let a cat wander at night? She supposed cats were nocturnal. They liked to hunt in the dark, didn’t they? But why would this cat scratch at the front door? What if it thought it lived here?

  Lily couldn’t bear the prospect of going back to bed, knowing an unhappy creature, its stomach probably empty, was crouched in the bushes. If only for her own peace of mind, she rummaged in the kitchen cabinets, found a can of tuna, and dumped its contents on a plate. Then she tiptoed out into the cold night. She’d never seen so many stars crowded into the sky, and the longer she looked, the more abundant they became. A fecundity of stars. The town was quiet except for the soft rush of the nearby surf, a rhythmic lullaby. The smells of kelp and sea salt were unusually strong—perhaps the tide had receded to reveal a plethora of ocean detritus washed up on the sand. She had a crazy urge to go for a beach walk in her pajamas and slippers. Josh would never have entertained this kind of whim, or maybe he would have, but he might have grumbled all the way.

  She silently thanked the cat for bringing her outside at this hour. But how could she long for a night walk, a night swim without Josh? Now she remembered the times his presence had annoyed her, the times she’d wanted to be alone. Once when she’d been reading a particularly suspenseful novel, he’d insisted on talking about an upcoming theater production, and she’d wished he would go away.

  Now she longed for him with a heavy ache, as if a block of concrete sat in the pit of her stomach. I’m sorry I ever wished you were gone. I would give my arms, my legs, my heart to have you back. I’m sorry I want to take a beach walk without you. If you were here, I would want to go with you.

  Her hand was getting cold, holding the plate of tuna. The cat didn’t come running toward the smell. Had the poor creature left for a more hospitable house? A rustling sound came from the privet hedge, too small for a cat. Maybe a bird or a squirrel. Lily tiptoed through the grass and left the plate of tuna on the ground close to the hedge. The cat would be able to smell it, and Lily would be able to sleep. But what if the cat were to come back? She couldn’t possibly adopt a pet. She could barely keep her own life on track. But she would figure it all out one step at a time.

  She went back to bed, realizing only when she got upstairs that her slippers were wet, a few blades of grass stuck to the soles. Josh would’ve complained and put the slippers in the wash, but instead she left them on the rug, a small luxury. Who cared if a little grass got into the house?

  Then she wrapped herself in the covers and lay in the darkness, feeling suddenly small and alone, and she thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a cat sleeping next to her. But no, a cat would have needs. A cat would grow old and die, or maybe it would die before growing old, as Josh had done. And she didn’t have time for a pet. She needed to get the local computer guru to set up the retail system for the shop. She needed fixtures. She needed to arrange her vintage displays. Dust the house, pull weeds, write bills—the to-do list went on. She half hoped the tuna would still be there in the morning, an indication that the cat had moved on, but of course, she found the plate empty.

  Chapter Four

  Kitty

  I’m back. How could I leave her alone? I’ve returned for the promise of more tuna, and also for her unhappy heartbeat. Something is off in the rhythm of blood rushing through her veins. I’ve listened to heartbeats this sad before, only not on the island. Mostly in the city, where people often live alone in tiny apartments with high windows that could kill me if I were to fall out. Not that I’m afraid of heights.

  I trot up to a low bay window of the woman’s little yellow cottage. In the overgrown grass, a new sign swings in the wind, indicating a shop, not a restaurant. I can smell restaurants from blocks away. Salmon, grilled chicken, maybe a crab or two. Does she have any food? I can’t tell for sure—this shop smells musty and complicated.

  I leap onto a rock for a better view inside. Two front rooms are full of clothes. They would make perfect scratching posts in a pinch. Dresses, scarves, hats. Big white statues decked out in colorful, scratchable clothes. Spirits of the lost and lonely have found sanctuary here in the dust and stains and folds. A young woman lingers in a long knit dress, then rises to the ceiling and fades away.

  A vague shadow slips along the floor, then up onto a table and expands, taking the barely discernible shape of a man. He’s watching the woman, sadness in his empty eyes. He can’t see with them, not really, but he senses the woman the way I can sense a mouse hiding beneath a bush.

  The woman looks toward him, as if she perceives him, too, but she’s staring at a dress on a statue behind him. She reaches right through him, and in touching him, she makes him disappear. Is she aware of these souls that inhabit her shop? Perhaps I need to warn her, but I can’t get into the house, can’t reach the doorknob, and a doughy woman and skinny man are coming up the sidewalk, stinking of denture cream and the dog they left in the car.

  I jump off the rock and move onto the stone path. If only the shop woman would open the door. At times like this, I could use a thumb or two. I stop and pretend to lick my paw, while I secretly assess my situation.

  “Oh, look, George, it’s a poor little stray!” Just my luck, the doughy woman comes lumbering toward me. Do I look disheveled? I keep my coat groomed.

  “You could use a good bru
shing.” She stretches her arms toward me. Arms, so strange, all hairless and dangling. She’s the kind of lady who would give me a bath and dress me in doll clothes. I’m not going that route again. But I’m also not the type to dash off at the slightest provocation. No nearby bushes in which to hide, and I can’t cross the road with cars rumbling off the ferry.

  “Do you think he’s hungry?” the doughy woman asks, tiptoeing toward me. “He’s probably cold out here with winter coming.”

  She, thank you very much. How would she like it if I mistook her for a man or even, God forbid, a dog?

  George glances at his watch. “Probably belongs to someone, Ida. Let’s go.”

  “Weird eyes!” Ida exclaims, bending down to peer closely at me.

  So are yours, all puffy and red.

  Ida points at my face. “One eye’s green and the other one’s blue!”

  So what? Ida’s about to grab me, so I run up onto the porch and sit on the prickly welcome mat. I have to pretend I live here.

  George wipes his nose with the back of his hand, a crude human gesture. “There you go. This is the cat’s house.”

  I’m closer to the shop now, right at the wooden front door, smelling alcohol, sweat, and soap in the clothes. I hear the sighs and mumblings of phantoms. Something else strange—the shop woman is talking to herself inside, the way crazy people do; but I know she’s not crazy, only grieving. Don’t ask me how I know. The same way I know when earthquakes are coming or when the spirits won’t leave.

  Ida won’t leave, either. “Maybe he went up on the porch for shelter. It’s starting to rain.”

  George looks at the darkening sky, then at me. “It lives here for sure. We can’t have a cat. What about Fifi?”

  “She’ll get used to having a little brother.”

  I’ll be a dog’s sibling when litterboxes freeze over and tuna flies.

  “We can’t take the cat home,” George says with impatience.

  “I’m going to see. Wait a minute.” She’s shuffling up the path. I could run out into the rain, but I hate getting wet. I could hiss at her, but I’m aggressive only when necessary. Sometimes I almost scare myself, and I don’t want to frighten Ida, so I stay put and allow her to pet my head. Then I slink out of reach, jump down off the porch, and slide through a narrow space between the wooden slats.

  “Darn! He went in where I can’t get him.” Ida hesitates a moment, then turns away. She doesn’t need me, anyway. She has George and a smelly dog named Fifi. But the shop woman doesn’t have anyone except the ghosts that haunt her, and besides, I need shelter from the rain, a warm bed for the night, and at least one decent meal before I sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Lily

  This reminder of Josh threw Lily for a loop—a pristine pullover hiding in a box of treasures from a Seattle estate sale. Josh had loved turtlenecks and his favorite color had always been turquoise. If she could banish all shades of blue from the planet, maybe she could forget him for good, but then the world wouldn’t have everything beautiful in it—the twilight sky over the Cascade Mountains, the indigo in a double rainbow, the blue-gray waters of the Puget Sound.

  But the sweater had to go, even if it was Ralph Lauren in perfect condition. She couldn’t bear to look at it. So she folded the pullover and set it neatly in a box marked Donations for Families in Need.

  “Why did I bid on this entire collection sight unseen?” she asked the male mannequin by the window. “Now I have to go through all these boxes and—never mind.”

  When had she started talking to the statue, anyway? It didn’t look real, but was only the suggestion of a man—broad shoulders, vague eyes, vague lips. Yet, sometimes she had the strong sensation of being watched, as if Josh’s essence had dropped into the mannequin and regarded her through opaque, fiberglass eyes. The prospect should’ve comforted her, but instead she felt jumpy and spooked.

  She turned the statue to face the front window, so he could gaze out across Harborside Road. Josh would’ve loved the morning mist, the air wafting in fresh from the Pacific Ocean. But he wouldn’t have liked the customers traipsing into The Newest Thing across the street, ignoring her boutique. And he wouldn’t have liked the noises the cottage made—creaks and groans and strange sighs.

  She’d already had a leak repaired in the roof. The contractor had told her the cottage would need a new roof eventually, and maybe she would need a new heating system, too. She’d only been here a month. The rooms felt drafty in spots and too warm in others, as if the house were a planet unto itself, complete with microclimates and self-contained ecosystems swirling inside its walls.

  One thing at a time. Right now, forget the house upgrades. I just need to bring in the customers. Why weren’t they knocking down the door? She’d installed a painted sign in the yard, on an ornate iron pole that suggested it was a vintage shop. A few curious people had come in, smiling and browsing—stragglers who’d already bought crisp, new outfits at The Newest Thing. What should she expect? She didn’t even have a window display, not yet at least. The cottage had stood empty for a long stretch, and it still looked a bit like an abandoned space. She had to give it time—create a pretty tableau in the window, plant flowers in the garden. But would her efforts pay off?

  As she rummaged through the last garments in the box, she felt a sudden, sharp panic. What if she failed? What if she ran out of money? What if nobody ever came in? What if The Newest Thing sucked away all her potential customers? She needed to visit the nearby businesses. She’d only been into the Island Creamery. She would go, soon. She would meet her neighbors.

  Right now, these dirty shirts needed to be washed with mild, fragrance-free soap. How could people mistreat their clothes, storing cotton in plastic bags? Delicate fabrics needed to breathe, and what was with the toxic mothballs? Herbal southernwood made a much better insect repellent.

  She needed a break from the details of laundering, so she got up and stretched, stiff from sitting cross-legged for so long. She headed back to the office for her usual breakfast of grapefruit, toast, and Market Spice tea. The office wasn’t another room, really, but rather the dining room closed off from the shop by a standing partition. As always, she perused the Island Bugle obituaries—a morbid habit, but she couldn’t help herself, and the memorials often celebrated successful lives: a ninety-one-year-old inventor remembered for creating the teleprompter; a ninety-four-year-old Chilean writer known for his “lyrical explorations of eroticism and mortality.”

  Josh’s obituary had read, Celebrated owner of Vilmont Designs for over a decade, Joshua Vilmont will be remembered for his period costume creations used in theater and film productions far and wide.…She had cried while writing the memorial. Will be remembered. Will be remembered. She’d felt as though her fingers bled as she typed, as though her rage would consume her. The universe had cheated her, forcing her to go on living. Somehow she’d believed that if two people were deeply in love, the gods would leave them alone. Josh should’ve lived to enjoy their golden wedding anniversary. He should’ve survived long enough to play with their grandchildren.

  What was she looking for in these narrow columns of newsprint? To commiserate with others who might understand her pain? She’d written a note to another young widow, I know exactly how you feel—the disappearing dinner invitations, the looks of pity, the sense of slowly becoming invisible. She had not heard back.

  But she heard from her mother all the time—e-mails, notes, postcards. She also called often, like now, when she should’ve been at her yoga class. “Are the customers breaking down your door, honey?” Her tinny voice sounded so far away, she could’ve been talking from the moon instead of California.

  Lily gazed out into her empty shop. Well, not empty. Full of the best Chanel, Ralph Lauren, Ferragamo. The clothes were here. The people would come. “Boatloads, Mom. I can’t hold off the stampede.” She felt a little guilty about lying, but in saying the hopeful words, she could make them come true.

  “You
’re so remote out there.”

  Lily heard all the things her mother didn’t say. Why did you take off like that? Are you crazy? You can’t just uproot yourself. You’re losing your mind. And on a deeper level still: How could you leave me? Abandon your parents?

  “I don’t go to the well for water. I don’t use an outhouse. I have electricity—”

  “You know what I mean. You’re on an island.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, but lots of people live on islands.” Lily tightened her grip on the phone. Had she become bitter? She imagined turning into a crotchety old battle-ax of a widow, or however the cliché went. The eccentric woman living alone in her shuttered, dingy house in the boondocks, lashing out at every well-meaning stranger.

  “Honey, Dad and I can’t help wondering…”

  Wondering what? Whether she planned to jump off a cliff? Drown herself in the sea? “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I hope you’re getting out. Is there anything to do in that small town?”

  “Farm festivals. Chocolate tastings. Mammoth fossil hunts. But I don’t have time for luxuries. It’s a lot of work to set up a shop.”

  “If you don’t go out you might, oh, I don’t know. You might get too isolated. Some people end up that way. Or they do drastic things or make decisions they wouldn’t otherwise make.”

  Like move to a sleepy island? Like use all her savings to open a clothing shop in a drafty old cottage? “Moving here was getting out.” Lily turned the page in the newspaper—another row of obituaries.

  “Maybe you could take a buying trip to San Francisco?”

  “I’ve got to get this place off the ground first.” Perhaps it would be an impossible task. Lily imagined her parents hopping the next plane, and she would have her social worker mom and high school teacher father offering kind but useless advice about how to run a vintage clothing boutique.