by Laura Ruby
“I could, but I won’t,” says Lily, and yawns.
Lily falls asleep with her father’s hand on her cheek. Her father tucks the blankets around her and kisses her good night. He stands and watches her for a few moments, the way he always does, before going off to bed.
Lily turns over in her sleep, and Chucklehead the fish slips out of her arms, sliding quietly down between the bed and the wall. The next morning, when Lily cries, confused and frantic, her mother will tell her that he was lonely for his fishy friends and had stolen away during the night, swimming through the drainpipes to his home in the sea.
Chapter Nineteen
Lily felt as if an animal crouched on her chest. She opened her eyes, gasping for breath. “Daddy?” she whispered. She sat up. The red room looked bloody in the gloom. Julep slept soundly, little paws crossed, at the end of the bed.
A dream. That’s all. Just another stupid, stupid dream.
Lily curled in a ball and screwed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. She did not want to cry again, she was so tired of crying.
But the day and the dream were too much for her, and soon she was muffling exhausted sobs in her pillow. Behind her, the door creaked open, and Lily could hear her mother creep into the room. At the sound, Julep opened her eyes and lifted her head, yawned, and put her head back down.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Lily said into her fists. She felt the bed shift beneath her as her mother sat down on the edge of it. “I had a dream, but I’m OK now.” Her mother put her hand on Lily’s hair, stroking softly, kindly, and Lily felt another rush of tears. As she cried, her mother’s hand gently lifted her hair, combing through the strands, the fingertips brushing against her aching scalp. “Mom,” Lily said. “Why does everyone have to leave?”
Her mother had no answer but to place a hand on Lily’s neck, cooling Lily’s heated skin. Out the window facing the street, the stars glittered bright as diamonds on velvet. Years before, when Lily was small, her father had told her a story about the beginning of time. “The maker of the world took up a handfuls of dust and wind and light, and scattered them into the night. Some of the dust caught in the thick, black sky. The dust became stars — blue stars, the hottest, yellow, medium-hot, and red, the coolest. The other particles came to rest on the earth, where they burrowed into the ground like seeds. From those seeds, roses and pansies and parsley and chuckleheads and the most beautiful lilies grew. But those lilies are like stars, see? They’re sisters, made of the same funky stuff.” He showed her how she could reach up her hand and it would seem as if she were able to hold them in her palm any time that she wanted to. That they were always with her, and she would never be alone.
“I know you said we shouldn’t blame ourselves,” said Lily. “But sometimes I do. And please don’t be mad, please…” she said, her voice cracking. “Sometimes I even blame you.” But her mother did not stop her gentle, soothing strokes. “If I just knew why, maybe it would be easier. Don’t you think it would be easier? Don’t you? Mom?”
Lily rolled over to face her mother only to find the bed empty, except for the Kewpie propped on the pillow beside her.
Chapter Twenty
Friday, her last day of freedom. Her mother hadn’t argued when, after breakfast, Lily refused to go to Something Fishy, when she said that she wanted to stay home and get her clothes ready for school, maybe go to the library to return some books.
“Well, all right,” said her mother, wringing her hands. “You know where I’ll be.” Lily could see how hard she was trying and it made her angry, then guilty, then tired.
“Yes,” said Lily. “I know where you are. “
Arden hesitated at the front door. “I talked to Uncle Wes last night. He’s coming in from Philadelphia tomorrow. We’re all going to have dinner together again.” Her mother’s nose wrinkled as if she smelled something unpleasant. She bit her lip. “We can’t do anything about your hair. But maybe you can wash and press a dress to wear?”
“I guess I can find something,” Lily said.
“And could you do me one last favor?” Her mother pulled on her gloves, not looking at her. “Would you put that portrait of Uncle Max back up on the wall? Uncle Wes didn’t seem to notice the last time, but I don’t want to chance it again.” She turned her cheek to Lily as if she expected another verbal onslaught about ghosts and all the games they play, but Lily simply nodded.
And she did as she promised — got her school clothes ready and put a couple of still-serviceable dresses in the wash. Then she went to the hall closet that had been Uncle Max’s home for more than a month, and took out the portrait, careful not to scratch the frame on the floor. It took only a few minutes to restore it to its place over the mantle.
Lily stepped back and took in Uncle Max’s silvery blond hair, pasty face, and ghastly green eyes. His smile seemed to be wider and redder than before, but she just shrugged. He could glare all he wanted, he could throw around that stupid Kewpie doll, pant like an overheated sheepdog, explode the lightbulbs like little bombs, turn her hair blue and it wouldn’t change a thing. He was dead. Dead, dead, dead.
She put on her coat, grabbed the history books that she and Vaz had taken out of the library and never opened, and walked the ten minutes to the corner of Ocean and Hughes. Ms. Reedy was in the same spot she’d been in when Lily was there with Vaz, the raisin-hearted. Today, her neckerchief was tangerine with green spots.
“Hello, Lily, “ she said. “I was wondering when you’d be back. Vasilios hasn’t been in and I curious about your research. How did it go at the Historical Association? “
“Uh, it didn’t go, “ said Lily. “The guy said he was packing up to move the archive somewhere else. So, no luck.”
“Oh, how disappointing for you, “ Ms. Reedy said.
“Not really,” said Lily, who had been disappointed so many times that she couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be disappointed. “And anyway, the guy was really rude. “
Ms. Reedy twisted her mouth. “Rude. Yes. He’s always been rude. “
“You know him? “ Lily said.
The librarian tugged at the knot on her neckerchief, sliding it from one side of her neck to the other. “You could say that,” she said. “He’s my brother.”
“Mr. Burton?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Something clicked in her brain and Lily looked at the nameplate on top of the counter. A. REEDY. A. “Your last name used to be Burton,” she said.
“Yes, before my marriage. “
A. B.
M. W. + A. B.
“You knew my Uncle Max,” said Lily.
Ms. Reedy straightened a pile of date cards. “Excuse me? “
“I found initials carved in the attic. M. W. plus A. B. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“A lot of people have those initials.”
“That’s not an answer,” said Lily. “How come you didn’t tell me you were going out with my uncle Max when I was here? “
Ms. Reedy shook her head. “Why would I? That was more than forty years ago.”
“You were going out with him, then.”
“If you say so.”
“Did you love him?” said Lily.
“I’m amazed that you seem to think this is your business, young lady.”
“Did he love you?”
The librarian smiled without teeth, her gold eyes as inscrutable as a cat’s. “Not enough, apparently, because he left me. Then again, men are terribly fickle, as I’m sure you’ve already discovered.”
The librarian’s comment hit Lily right in the gut, and she slammed the books down on the counter. “I want to return these.”
Ms. Reedy flipped open the books one at a time. “Four days overdue,” she said, after she pulled the cards and checked the dates. “Ten cents a day per book. Three books. That adds up to a dollar twenty.”
“A dollar twenty!” said Lily.
Ms. Reedy turned the computer monitor so that Lily could see.
She pointed to the date. “Exact change is appreciated.”
Lily thrust her hand inside her too-tight jeans pocket, hoping that she still had a few dollars. She pulled her hand out and a couple of quarters and crumpled bills fell to the ground. She reached down to pick up the money and she felt the silver pendant slip out from under her shirt and hit her in the chin. She stood, placing a dollar and one of the quarters on the counter. “There,” she said.
But Ms. Reedy wasn’t paying attention to the money. She was staring at Lily’s pendant.
“What?” said Lily.
“Oh, nothing. I was just admiring your necklace,” said Ms. Reedy. She took the money from the counter, and pressed a nickel into Lily’s hand, her expression softening. “I’m sorry if I was a little…abrupt. There are some things I would like to forget. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
Lily touched the pendant. “That’s okay,” she said.
“It’s such an interesting coin.”
“What is?” said Lily, looking into her palm at the nickel Ms. Reedy had just given her.
“No, not that. The coin you’re wearing.” Mrs. Reedy pointed at the necklace.
“Coin?” Lily said. Coin! She resisted the urge to smack herself in the head. The book her mother had found in the fridge. Wasn’t the book in the fridge a coin book?
“I’m no expert in numismatics, but I’d say that’s an Indian coin. Quite old, I think. Let me show you.”
Ms. Reedy walked out from behind the big front desk and led Lily to the bookshelves. She pulled out several books and leafed through them until she found a picture of what she wanted. Then she handed the book to Lily and pointed to a photo of a silver coin with markings similar to Lily’s pendant.
“See?” she said. “This is a rupee from the Mogul Empire. Early to mid-seventeenth century. And here’s one from the late 1600s that looks very much like the coin you’re wearing. The Sanskrit legends on the coin identify the ruler and the dynasty.”
“Does that mean that this coin is worth a lot of money?”
“Probably not that much, but you’d have to consult a coin dealer and have it appraised,” said Ms. Reedy. “May I ask where you got that piece? Is someone in the family a collector?”
“My mom found it.”
“Found it, you say?” said the librarian. “How unusual.” The tails of the tangerine scarf twisted in her lean hands. “One normally doesn’t find rupees from the 1600s lying about.”
“No,” said Lily, “one doesn’t.” Lily knew that it was no accident that her mother had found the coin. But what did it mean? And even if it did mean something, should she care?
Lily closed the book and handed it back to Ms. Reedy. “Thanks for showing me these.”
“You’re quite welcome,” said Ms. Reedy as they walked back to the library counter. “I can understand your curiosity about your uncle, Lily. So many things terrible things have happened to your family I would imagine it could make a person…tense.”
“Terrible things? You mean the fire?”
“The fire, yes. So tragic. And to think Max set it himself. And the other tragedy,” Ms. Reedy said. Then she hid her mouth with her hand. “I apologize. This is your family I’m talking about.”
“Tragedy? What other tragedy?”
The librarian shook her head. “This is terrible of me.”
“Ms. Reedy, I didn’t know any of them. Did someone else die in the house?”
The librarian heaved a great sigh, seemed — pretended? — to be struggling with herself. “Katherine Wood,” she said at last. “After the fire, she simply stopped eating.”
“She…what?”
“Refused any kind of help. She wasted away to nothing. In the end, her heart simply gave out.”
Lily’s skin flowered into the goose bumps that were becoming permanent, and she asked the question she already knew the answer to. “Where did she die?”
Ms. Reedy looked left, then right. “In the dining room. They found her still gazing at her favorite chandelier.”
Katherine in the Cradle
She could leave the chandelier, she could, but she doesn’t. The chandelier is sweet. The chandelier is a brace of wind that rocks her in its cradle, the lights overhead an umbrella of napping stars. When she hangs from the chandelier’s arms like this, swaying gently like a Trapeze artist, she is clean, washed of memory, the world turned on its terrible head, not so terrible anymore. It is a kind of sleep, the swaying. She can almost feel her eyes shuddering behind her lids. Almost.
She opens her eyes and swings idly, hanging upside-down from one shadowy, hooked leg. Nothing she could do in life, of course. So many things she could not do in life. Better to let go.
Not better, she corrects herself. Easier.
She will not think of it. That’s the reason why she swings, so that she does not have to think of it. She imagines the blood rushing to her head, if she had any blood. She grasps the chandelier with her hands, hooks her other leg. She is so light this way. The fixture barely moves as she shifts position, she’s so light. The crystals wink at her, amused by her. She observes the cat that watches her from the top of the dining room table. It’s a pretty cat, small and neat. She did not like cats before, but this one she likes. Its little brown boots. The way it watches. It pays attention, this cat, and Katherine, better than anyone, understands how important it is to pay attention. If she had paid more attention, perhaps things would have been different.
No, no, not that. Anything but that. She closes her eyes, tries to focus on swaying, dangling like a leaf from a tree’s loving fingertip. There is peace only if she can stay clean, empty. Why can’t she stay clean?
The pain wells up inside her. She squeezes her eyelids shut but she can’t stop the rush, can’t erase the agony, and her mouth, once so full and red and lovely, stretches into a ring of smoke as the grief consumes her, making her buck and jerk. The crystals crash. The pretty cat moans low in its pretty throat, but she cannot console it, she cannot console herself.
Oh my boy, my beautiful boy. What have you done?
Chapter Twenty-One
Lily gaped at the chandelier.
Her scalp tingled, and she pressed a palm to the back of her head. Someone had stroked her hair during the night, someone had left her the Kewpie. She thought it was Max, trying to haunt her or scare her or leave her another incomprehensible, creepy clue, but maybe it wasn’t Max at all, maybe it was her great-grandmother Katherine, attempting to comfort her.
Were there two ghosts?
But even if there were, did it matter? One ghost, two ghosts, eight hundred fifty ghosts — it was all the same. What could she do to bring peace to the dead? What could the dead do to bring peace to the living?
“Lily,” her mother said, “your uncle asked if you could pass the mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, sorry.” She picked up the bowl of potatoes and handed them to Uncle Wes.
Uncle Wes had arrived an hour before dinner, leaving Lily to chat awkwardly with him as her mother raced around the kitchen preparing the closest thing to a feast that they could afford: a pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and biscuits made from pancake mix.
“So, Lily,” said Uncle Wes. “Have you started school yet?” Lily noticed that he couldn’t take his eyes off her hair, though he hadn’t said anything about it. Poor Uncle Wes, always appalled.
“I start on Monday.”
“That’s wonderful to hear,” said Uncle Wes. “Wonderful. You know how important education is to a young person. I seem to recall that your mother spent quite a bit of money sending you to the best schools, Arden.” He wore a little pimple of potato on his chin.
Lily’s mother worried an eyebrow with her fingertip. “I seem to recall that, too.” She opened a bottle of wine and filled a glass almost to the brim. Her eyes looked red in the candlelight.
Uncle Wes turned to Lily. “Did your mother ever tell you about her childhood, Lily? The fine schools? The beautiful clothes? Th
e riding and ballet lessons?”
“Some of it,” said Lily.
“Your mother had the best that my family could offer her.” He looked around the room. “She still does.” He tore at his meat with the beautiful silverware Lily’s mother had set the table with. “But what’s the saying? Youth is wasted on the young? Instead of being grateful, your mother turned her back on us and chose to run off with a musician.”
Lily’s mother gripped her wineglass as if she were trying to crush it. “It was a long time ago.”
Uncle Wes folded and refolded the napkin on his lap. “How about your job, Arden? Are you still making those trinkets of yours?”
Lily’s mother blinked. “Do you mean my jewelry?”
“You know what I mean.”
Her mother’s eyes got flinty in a way that Lily had rarely seen. “Yes, I’m still making my trinkets. Are you still running sweatshops in Third World countries?”
“Ah,” said Uncle Wes, chuckling. “There’s the Arden I remember.”
Arden took another sip of wine. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I still get carried away sometimes.”
“Of course you do,” said Uncle Wes. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”
Lily could see the exhaustion, the humiliation behind her mother’s clenched jaw. Lily stared down at her plate, feeling the blood rush up her neck. Now she tugged at the tight collar of the stupid old dress she wore.
“Is something bothering you, Lily?” asked Uncle Wes. “You seem uncomfortable.”
Her mother gave her a look and Lily stopped wriggling. “No,” she said, “I’m fine.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sound their forks scraping against the china. Lily noticed that Uncle Wes kept glancing up at the chandelier, too. Despite herself, she wanted to ask about his mother dying in this room, if he had found her, why he thought she had stopped eating, why she had allowed herself to waste away, if it was a broken heart that had killed her. If her great-grandmother Katherine was the sort of person who would stroke girls’ hair in the middle of the night to make them feel better.