Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

  The silhouetted figure by the Elm tree leapt to the forefront of her mind.

  Iris sat on the ashrose sofa, a double-shot of whiskey in hand, still shaken from her awful nightmare. Sensing her mistress’ distress, Cleo crept up next to her and licked her hand. Iris stroked the warm, silky body, more out of her own need for contact, but eliciting a grateful purr from Cleo just the same.

  Iris had quit smoking three weeks before. Now she slipped her hand into the pocket of her robe, found the lone cigarette she kept there (and in other pockets) in case of emergency. This damn well qualifies, she thought.

  Rain pattered insistently against the window, sounding like the tapping of fingers of someone wanting to be let inside. In the far corner of the room, the grandfather clock ticked away, as it had through three generations. Tick tock…tick tock…like a time-bomb. Time running out. Crazy. Why was she thinking like this? The nightmare, that was why.

  But it wasn’t the only reason. Her gaze wandered to the Emily Warren landscape hanging above the fireplace. Looking upon it usually had a calming effect on Iris, but not tonight.

  It was not an ordinary landscape, but one that took you in after you’d kept company with it awhile, that let you feel the salt-sea air on your skin, know the heave and sway of the ship beneath your feet, hear the wind filling the massive sails. She wasn’t the only person to experience its effect.

  Looking at it now though, she heard the faintest whisper of accusation. You have to help her.

  Is it my fault your granddaughter won’t listen? That she thinks I’m just a dotty old woman. I tried to warn her.

  Iris took a swig of the whiskey, choked and sputtered on its fire. Great! Obviously, she was getting too old to take her booze straight up. Reaching for the silver lighter on the end table, she lit her cigarette. For a few seconds, she stared at its glowing tip with distaste, as much for her own weakness as for the cigarette. Then she proceeded to smoke it down to its filter, as if the cigarette might contain the precious oxygen her lungs couldn’t seem to get enough of since she woke from her nightmare, gasping for air. Never mind that the thing tasted like scorched socks, and made her feel light-headed.

  Iris’ hand jerked as the cat let out an ungodly howl. Sparks flew from her cigarette, one landing on the back of her hand; it burned like the devil. Uttering a mild curse, Iris leapt to her feet, brushing frantically at it. Mashing the cigarette out in the ashtray, she said, “Cleo, what the…?”

  In answer, Cleo sprang up behind her to the back of the sofa, hackles raised, teeth bared in a deep, steady growl as she stared at a spot above the fireplace. Goosebumps raised on Iris’ arms as her own gaze followed her companion’s.

  Another nightmare, she told herself, as in disbelief she watched the clouds in the painting. They were moving. It can’t be. Black clouds, sun-yellowed at their edges, boiling into one another. Iris blinked, shook her head, as if to dispel what had to be a hallucination. She had to be losing her mind, didn’t she? Because this could not be happening.

  But it was. As the clouds raced across the painting, entering into some mysterious dimension beyond the frame, new angrier clouds took their place. And beneath them, the ship rode the giant swells, sails billowing in the wind.

  “Impossible,” Iris whispered, unable to look away. At last she squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe it’s the whiskey, she thought, grasping for some reasonable, sane explanation. After a moment, she took a deep breath, forced her eyes upon the painting once more. A shudder of breath escaped her lips as relief replaced her dread. The clouds were still now, mere images painted on a flat, canvas surface.

  Some sort of hallucination, she thought again. That was all. But Cleo had seen it too. She reached for her glass. As she tipped it to her lips, some of the liquid trickled from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it away with a tissue, was visited with a vision of herself sitting with a covey of other old women, staring with glazed eyes at a flickering television screen in some nursing home, while an impatient hand wiped spittle from her palsied chin.

  The phone rang and for the second time in a few minutes, Iris near jumped out of her skin, almost knocking her drink over. Cleo bounded from the sofa in fright, tried to scramble from the room but her feet were travelling so fast she was running in place, nails clicking madly on the hardwood floor. She looked so hilarious, so like a cat in a cartoon that Iris laughed with weak release.

  She picked up the receiver. Who could be calling at such an hour?

  “Aunt Iris,” her distraught nephew said. “Something horrible has happened. I’m sorry if I woke you. I just didn’t want you to hear it on the news…”

  Thirteen

  The knocking grew more insistent. Whoever was out there wasn’t planning on going away.

  I have no phone. I can’t even call for help.

  Thunder rumbled and cracked around her. She thought about the sirens, now silent. Perhaps someone other than herself was in need of help. The storm was a bad one; maybe there’d been an accident. She took a single, tentative step forward. “Who’s there?” she called out, keeping her voice calm, even.

  “Rach, it’s me. For God’s sake, let me in before I drown out here.”

  With a mixture of relief and astonishment, Rachael quickly opened the door to her soggy, yet still glamorous friend standing in her doorway, the hood of her raincoat drawn up over her head.

  The lights came back on as Betty was apologizing for showing up in the middle of the night, explaining that she’d gotten lost trying to find her way here. “I drove miles out of my way,” she said.

  “I got lost myself on the way here,” Rachael said. “Easy to do. It’s great to see you, Betty. Please stop apologizing and come in.”

  Ten minutes later they were sitting in Rachael’s kitchen over coffee and Betty was relating the events of her summer sale. “They ripped every last scrap of clothing from the hangers,” she said in mock complaint. “How women do love a sale.”

  Rachael laughed dutifully, knowing that Betty was doing her best to cheer her up. No surprise to her that the lights had come on the second Rachael opened the door to her. How attractive she looked in her bronze silk shirt, the brown suede skirt ending at mid-calf. Her lips and nails were painted in the same shade of bronze, her short red hair worn sleek and saucy, freckles expertly hidden beneath makeup. Her spicy perfume scented the air. Betty was the epitome of the successful career woman.

  When they were kids, Betty once said that Rachael was like black and white TV while she was like color TV. Not a bad analogy, now that she thought of it. Betty had exhibited more than the usual teenage interest in makeup and fashion. And she was smart. Not so surprising that she would end up owning her own dress boutique. They were an unlikely pair.

  “This road must be the darkest, scariest one I’ve ever driven on,” Betty said, changing the subject. “I kept expecting some hideous thing to come shambling out of the bay, dripping in seaweed.”

  “You have an overactive imagination,” Rachel said.

  “Yeah, maybe. But it didn’t help hearing about that poor girl being murdered in her hospital bed.”

  “What girl?”

  “They didn’t give the name. But apparently she was a victim of assault, which was why she was in there in the first place. Guess the guy came back tonight to finish the job. Didn’t you hear the police sirens.”

  “Yes. I did.” A memory nudged Rachael. She pushed it back. “How horrible. Betty, Can I get you something to eat a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks. I had a greasy cheeseburger at a truck stop earlier. It’s still with me, probably will be till Christmas. Come, sit down, Rachael. Stop fussing. And more to the point, when was the last time you ate? You look like hell, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve lost more weight.” She looked deeply at her. “I’ve been worried about you, Rach.”

  “I’m okay. I just need some time.” One more word or gesture of sympathy and she would come apart. “Are you cold, Betty? You just have that thin blouse on. I�
��ll put more wood on the fire. We can set in there, if you like.”

  “I’m fine, honey. But whatever you want.”

  Rachael’s next words tumbled out in a rush. “He tried to lie his way out of it at first, you know. But I knew he was relieved to have it out in the open.” Pain rose like a fist in her chest. “He told me Lisa saw me that day I drove to the office. She recognized me from the photo on Greg’s desk. (Kept there, she suspected, because Halston was big on family.) “He said Lisa felt bad. Why did he need to tell me that, Betty?”

  “Because he’s a jerk. What can I say? I always thought you were too damn good for him.” She paused. “I tried to call you. I dialed information for the number.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  Betty raised a finely arched brow. “Gee. No kidding.”

  “I’m sorry. On both counts. I didn’t mean to dump on you like that. At least you know why I didn’t get a phone installed. Your shoulder is damp enough. I’ll have to get a phone though. I need to call Jeff and Susan. This will be hard for them. I’m justnot ready.”

  “I know. Remember, Rachaelthis isn’t your fault.” She looked around. “Funny, after you told me about this place, I remembered you used to summer with your grandmother ‘at the shore’, you said. I never knew what shore. I used to wish you would ask me to go with you.”

  Rachael said nothing. She had no explanation. She’d told no one about Jenny’s Cove, other than her children, and her grandmother was long dead when they were born. And even in the telling, it had seemed a fairytale place, even to her. Like the magical placed in the books she had read them.

  I wanted to keep it for myself, she realized. My secret place.

  Betty darted a look toward the window, gasped.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Rachael peered through the dark glass. “Did you see something?”

  She was silent a moment, then she laughed and shook her head. “Yeah, my own reflection. Rach, if you’re determined to live here, you should at least get some curtains on those windows.”

  “I plan to,” she said, feeling a twinge of defensiveness. “I’m really sorry you felt a need to drive all the way down here and check on me, Betty.” Seeing the hurt on her friend’s face, she immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Apology accepted. But sometimes I don’t understand you, girl. We’ve been there for each other since we were kids. When I got hit with the news that I would never have kids, no matter how badly I wanted that, you were there for me. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Rach.” Tears glimmered in her green eyes. “If not for you…”

  “You give me too much credit. I…”

  “No, it’s true. And I want to be there for you now. Please, don’t shut me out. I had this awful feeling that when you left Greg, you left me too. I know it sounds crazy, but…”

  “It is crazy. I just needed to be by myself for awhile, that’s all.”

  “You should be back in your own home,” Betty bristled. “It was Greg’s place to leave, not yours. You’re not the one who’s screwing around.”

  A familiar refrain. As much as she appreciated Betty being in her corner, she really didn’t want to hear this now. “I don’t give a damn about the house,” she said. “It, and everything in it was always more Greg’s than mine. This place is more my style.”

  She shrugged. “Okay kid, if that’s how you feel I’ll shut up about it.”

  “Thanks. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

  “Sure.” She stood and draped an arm around Rachael’s shoulder. “Need to stretch the old gams, anyway. You know,” she said, looking around her, “this place is kind of cozy at that. Rustic. Kind of grows on you.”

  “I know it needs work, but it’s basically sound. I’ll make up a bed for you, Betty.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not staying. I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. Of course you’re staying. It’s the middle of the night for heaven’s sake.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, okay, then. If you really want me to. It’ll be like old times.” She grinned. “Like a slumber party.”

  Rachael could only shake her head and smile. “C’mon, you can help me make up the bed.”

  “’Member when we used to sit up all night talking. Let’s pretend we’re kids again. Unless you’re tired. I’m keeping you up, aren’t I? Just call me Miss Sensitivity.”

  “Don’t be silly. So, should we take a drive so you can phone Allan and let him know? There’s a phone booth at the end of the road.”

  “You forget, I have a car-phone. Anyway, I already left Allan a note.”

  “Oh.” Rachael suppressed a smile.

  “So then,” Betty said, “since we’re going to pull an all-nighter, how about we celebratealbeit a tad belatedlyyour birthday. Or at least give it the good old college try. We’ll save the tour for later.” With that, she reached into her leather bag on the floor, and produced a small wrapped box, topped with a silver bow.

  “Happy birthday, Rachael,” she said, handing it to her. “But we need to make a toast before you open it.”Not waiting for a response, Betty headed for the front door. “I’ve got something a little extra-special out in the car. Be right back.”

  Rachael envisioned the girl Betty had beenred curly mop, (though not as vivid a red as now) the quick grin. Always in a hurry like she was afraid she might miss that new adventure right around the next corner. Never afraid to go after what she wanted. Never imagining that she might not always get it. Which had to make finding out she would never bear children all the more devastating.

  As Rachael waited for Betty on the porch, something just beyond the car caught her eye—a mound of deeper darkness near the edge of the road.

  Something crouched there? Every nerve in her body tensed as Rachael strained to make it out. A few seconds later, she shook her head at her foolishness. A tree, she realized. Only a tree felled by the storm.

  It seemed both their imaginations were working overtime tonight.

  Minutes after Rachael and Betty went back inside, Tommy Prichard came staggering up from the beach, clutching a pint of Johnnie Walker’s by its neck. He’d swiped it from his old man’s stash.

  The storm had moved out to sea, the rain dwindling to a fine bone-chilling drizzle. Though Tommy was soaked to the skin, the booze he’d consumed had chased most of the cold out of him.

  It had all happened so fast. One minute he was looking at his beautiful Heather lying dead in her hospital bed, the next he was pounding back down the metal stairs, his footfalls echoing all around him, and the cop on his heels, bellowing, “Halt or I’ll shoot.” Tommy didn’t stop running until he was deep in the woods. The woods where he’d always felt safe and hidden.

  Planting his feet apart for balance, Tommy uncapped the bottle and took a long swallow of the scalding liquid. Its warmth spread to his belly and limbs. But it couldn’t touch his pain at losing Heather. Brought no relief from the knowledge that she was gone from him forever. Gone from the world. There was this huge, cavernous hole in his heart, so big it seemed impossible that his heart could go on beating.

  He heard the murmuring of the bay behind him, the wind sighing in the trees like they understood and shared his pain. Rocking on his heels, Tommy made a couple of fumbled attempts to screw the cap back on the bottle. Finally succeeding, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his jean-jacket, and with a mad lurch, reeled toward the house like a shipwrecked sailor, drawn by the lights beacons that guided him to safe harbor.