by Gina Rossi
Once Alice is asleep, we eat chilli and drink red wine in front of the fire. That done, we watch a movie called Haunted October—Lucas laughs and I scream. We go to bed at midnight, the very height of the witching hour, Buster—Blue Rocks’ own living Halloween symbol—following us to Alice’s room, where he curls up on her feet like a plump, furry cushion.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“There’s good news,” Lucas tells Alice and me at breakfast, once we’ve made it through the most haunted night of the year, unscathed. “John called. Rayna had her pups in the night, and he wants us to go down to Boston and see them.”
Alice is wide-eyed with wonder. “Can we have a puppy, Daddy, can we? Molly’s got a puppy, so I must have a puppy!”
Lucas smiles at her. “Not this time, sweetheart.”
“Why? Why?”
“We have Buster,” Lucas says.
When Alice has left the room I ask Lucas why Alice can’t have a puppy, although I shudder to think what Buster might do to a puppy.
“Most of the professional child-minders who look after Alice won’t accept the additional responsibility of a dog. A dog would make it more difficult to appoint the best person, it’s that simple.”
Simple, and bleak.
Lucas’s phone rings. He answers it, heading for the studio, leaving me standing in front of the sink, staring out the window. What he said flattened me, emptied me out, drained the colour from the world. I must decide what to do because he’s presuming I’m moving on.
Later, Lucas asks me if I’d like to go to Boston with him and Alice to visit John, Debra, Rayna and her puppies. “It’ll be our last chance to visit Debra before the baby’s born,” he adds, “and a good time for you to meet the rest of the family, dogs included. We’ll drive down this afternoon, spend a night or two, come back.”
I hesitate. A good idea and a natural progression, I guess, but something’s not right. “No. No, thanks, Lucas. I won’t come, if you don’t mind.”
He does mind, and I see it on his face. “Can I, you know, tell John about us?”
“Maybe not yet.” What about us, anyway?
“Why don’t you want to come?”
I smile right into his eyes and shake my head. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I strongly feel I shouldn’t. Don’t ask me why.”
He doesn’t. He disappears to crash about in the pantry. A minute later, “Lara!”
“What?”
“Where’s that case of whisky?”
I join him in the pantry. “Whisky?”
“There was a case of whisky in here. Right there.” He points to the floor, beneath the bottom shelf, right at the back of the room.
“Oh that,” I say. “I threw it away.
He frowns. “Threw it away? Where?”
“I poured it down the sink.”
“You—”
“That night you were drunk, Lucas. I was really worried about you, Alice, everything. I poured it down the sink and recycled the bottles.”
“Ha, hahaha! Funny, Lara, real funny. That whisky’s for John. I’ve been collecting it for four years, at auctions, all over the world.”
“Four years?”
“Yeah. He gave me a case of vintage champagne when Lis was born. It’s a real treasure, kept in a vault at the Morgan Bank. I’ve done the same for him, with whisky. With the baby due, I’d like to take it with me to Boston this afternoon.”
My heart slides downward. “Well, perhaps you should have kept John’s whisky there too.”
“Lara?”
“I threw it away, Lucas.”
“We’re talking upward of five thousand dollars here.”
“I’m deeply sorry. I threw it away.” Five thousand dollars.
Lucas faces me head on, and head lowered, like he’s about to charge. “Didn’t you notice the bottles were unusual? All different shapes?”
“I know nothing about whisky.” Even my voice is frightened by what I’ve done, and will do no more than whisper.
“Clearly not!” Lucas glares and there’s a terrible silence that could go either way. Minutes pass. I dare not move until Lucas throws his hands up in frustration and shouts “Fuck!” at the ceiling. He marches out of the room and slams himself into the studio.
Standing on the driveway that afternoon, saying goodbye to Alice and Lucas, I’m desolate. Lucas is mad, and I’m frightened he’ll stay mad.
“Get in the Mustache, Lis,” he says.
“But why Lara not come? Why?”
“Don’t ask me again, sweetheart.” There’s nothing sweet in the way he says that.
“Lucas,” I murmur, “Don’t be a-n-g-r-y with her, please. It’s nothing to do with her, it’s fully my fault.”
He has the grace to look chastised. “It’s my fault, actually. See you day after tomorrow.”
If our relationship can survive this, I suppose it could survive anything, but it’s too soon to make that suggestion.
“Are you going to tell John what happened to his whisky?”
He glances at me. “Probably not. Alice, in the car.”
“I should do that, shouldn’t I?”
“Come with us then.”
“No. It wouldn’t be right—”
“Oh, look, Daddy and Lara.” Alice points to the ground. “Pretty!”
We look. Behind the car, on the side away from the house, there’s a bright circle of fallen maple leaves, about four feet across, arranged in yellow, orange and red rings, with a centre of red rosehips. Each ring is perfectly constructed, each leaf perfectly overlapping the next, every stalk pointing to the centre of the circle, each apex outward, like a giant flower.
“Who did that?” I say, knowing the answer, full well.
“Agat’s been,” Lucas says.
“What is it?”
Lucas walks around the circle, studying it. “I’m not sure, but it’s a real work of art.”
“It’s beautiful. Do you thinks it’s like a…a truce of some sort?”
Lucas nods. “I suspect it is.”
“That’s good.”
“Sure is.” He picks up Alice, and puts her in the car seat, strapping her in. I hug and kiss her, and shut the door.
“You take care now, Lara.” He kisses me.
“Lucas, I’m sorry.”
He strokes my hair. “It’s okay.”
Is it?
They leave, waving, me calling out to Lucas to drive safely. It’s a long way to Boston. I stand in the porch, touching the handle of the sea horse door until the sound of the engine fades. About to go inside, I change my mind. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I go out onto the driveway and take a photo of the flower of leaves Agat made for us.
To give Buster credit, he ambles outside to join me, and rubs his head on my ankle. I know it’s his suppertime, but it’s comforting anyway.
That evening I Google Abenaki symbols and there’s not much. All I can find are some Native American symbols that are similar—concentric circles that represent fire, which is a bit worrisome. In some tribal cultures, smoke was used to purify sacred items, while fire was the symbol of the heart of the people. Smoke also carried prayers to the Great Spirit. Generally, fire symbols appear to represent cleansing and renewal, because out of the ashes of the fire comes regeneration, etcetera. Generally, it’s positive. Blue Rocks, I reckon, will not be struck by lightning or spontaneously combust.
There’s nothing to worry about.
There’s really nothing to worry about, I’m sure. However, in the morning I decide to drive out to Agat’s, bearing a fresh-baked batch of giant blueberry and white chocolate muffins. The day is clear and cold; so cold, I’m driving over ice-crusted puddles, so clear, I could be looking at the world through a sheet of polished ice. Perhaps I could pop in and see Angie, to get her angle on the fire-flower on the driveway, although popping in isn’t my forte. Popping in can be highly inconvenient: refer Uncle Buck’s ill-timed visit to Blue Rocks to cadge fifty bucks off Lu
cas. I wouldn’t have put it past him to stomp around to the sea porch doors, grumbling. If he’d peered through the windows he could have caught me and Lucas in the act. Maybe I should ring Angie; see if it’s convenient to have a quick word.
In the end, I don’t have to. I get to Agat’s little house and see Angie on the porch watering plants. I stop the Jeep and get out.
“Beautiful morning,” she says, putting down the watering can.
“Perfect,” I answer. The windows of the house are closed, the blinds drawn. Angie’s locking the door while we speak.
“Is Agat away?” I ask.
“She’s not well. She’s in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I brought her a little something to thank her.” I hand the box of muffins to Angie. “She left a beautiful pattern of leaves on our driveway yesterday. Pretty impressive. Alice loved it.”
Angie pockets the key and turns to face me, frowning. “You sure?”
“I can’t imagine who else would have done that.”
“What did it look like?”
I take out my phone, pull up the photo and show Angie. She studies it at length, a forefinger tapping her lips. “It looks like fire.”
“Do you think it’s a-a message of some sort?”
She stares at the phone a moment longer, and hands it back. “Nah. And even if it were, she won’t be able to do anything about it.”
“Meaning?”
“She was admitted to hospital last night with an intense headache. So intense they had to sedate her. CT scans this morning revealed a tumour on the brain.”
“Do you mean cancer?” I step forward, putting my hand on Angie’s arm.
Angie sighs, raising her eyebrows. “Strangely enough, no. Just a big ol’ benign thing, growing away in her head.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“We think it may have caused her to, y’know, imagine stuff, behave strange.”
I nod. “Can…can anything be done?”
“They can operate, but Agat’s well into her eighties. It’s real risky.”
“Her eighties! I can hardly believe that.”
“All those magic lotions and potions she uses. Maybe I should try them, whaddaya think?” She smiles.
“If you do, I will.”
Angie cracks open the muffin box to take a peek. “Thanks, Lara. Agat’ll love these. I look forward to helping her eat them.”
We say goodbye and I get back in the Jeep.
“And,” Angie calls after me, “don’t worry about that leaf stuff.”
“I won’t.”
“Did Buster enjoy the duck?”
“The—”
“Agat told me she gave Alice wild duck for Buster. Did he enjoy it? She was real keen to know.”
“Er, no, it’s still in the freezer. Agat said to debone it first.”
All the way home I think about Agat, wild duck and fiery leaves. However, no need to feel guilty about the duck because when I pull up in front of Blue Rocks, I see that Buster—possibly somebody else, though Buster springs firmly to mind—has helped himself. The fallen garbage bin lies on its side, strewing rubbish across the driveway. I park the Jeep, get out and clean up. There’s no sign of the duck, merely the empty plastic container, prised open with claws and teeth, and no sign of Buster.
Inside, I make a cup of tea. The view draws me through the house onto the sea porch. The sea is mercury silver, the sky a chilled duck-egg blue. I put on a pullover, pick up a rug and ensconce myself on the porch swing, so cleverly placed in the full sun, well-protected from the wind. It’s just warm enough, perfect if I ignore the frozen tip of my nose. I drink tea and gaze at the beauty. Seagulls glide on ice-white wings, way out to sea, like snowflakes in a summer sky, their distant ringing cries and the soft boom of low surf the only sounds. Only, it’s not summer any more. I put down my cup and snuggle under the rug, pulling it up to my eyes. I didn’t sleep that well last night, worrying about leaves and signs. Besides, the weather forecast has already predicted a swift end to this fragile state of affairs, so I might as well enjoy myself while it lasts. My eyelids are heavy; I’m toasty-warm.
Mmmmm, glorious…
Life is perfect now—right now—in this exquisite moment, curled up on the porch swing in the sun with Lucas, floating in the dark gold of his eyes. Is his heart still in lockdown? I think not because there’s a deep connection now, a glimpse of forever. Am I wrong to want so much? Am I greedy or—God forbid—needy? I love him. Sunk in the lace-trimmed cushions—where did they come from?—with Lucas half on top of me, one long leg pushed between mine, his arms wound around my shoulders, his mouth against my hair, murmuring…
What’s that he’s saying?
What?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There’s a terrible noise. Did Luca belch? That’s not sexy! I snap open my eyes, sit up, dragging the rug around me. I’m alone, an empty teacup beside me, and…that noise. What is that?
“Lucas?” I actually say his name, blinking, putting my hand on the hard bench where there’s not a lace-trimmed cushion to be seen. Lucas?
Bleaagh.
Is it a bird? I look out to sea, across the lawn. Can I can really see the curvature of the earth, or is it an optical illusion—
Bleaagh.
—and if it is, why doesn’t it bend the other way, like a wide, shallow, blue bowl? There are white sails in the bay, spinnakers out like balloons—blue, red and yellow.
Bleaagh.
I wonder if I could learn to sail? This would be as good a place as any. The best. How amazing to feel the sails fill with fast-moving air, to be powered by the wind like the ancient explorers—
Bleaagh. Bleaagh. Bleaaaaaagh.
I throw the rug aside and get up. Leaning over the porch rail I see the cause of the commotion.
“Buster! What are you doing?”
He’s crouched to the side of the steps, in long grass, head extended, convulsing. He’s choking. He’s choking on Agat’s duck! I creep down the steps without much of a plan in my head. All I know is, one, Buster needs to be okay by the time Alice gets home and, two, Agat will not get the better of me. Not even now, when she is, apparently, beyond capable of stalking this family. I will pick Buster up quickly and hold him tight, because he’s bound to struggle. I’ll rush him inside, close the doors to confine him, call the vet on her emergency number, and race to the clinic. That’s the only thing to do, so that’s what’s going to happen.
“For God’s sake, Buster, work with me,” I plead, under my breath. He glances at me, terror in his yellow eyes, and chokes again. “Nice kitty, beautiful kitty, clever kitty, Buster,” I say, soothing him. “Who’s the handsomest kitty in the world? Who? Good kitty, shhhh.”
Buster relaxes a little. Here’s my chance. I bend, taking care not to make any quick movements, and stretching out my hands, slowly, I grip him around his middle. He’s going to bolt; I know it.
A head-splitting uproar rips the air. The explosion of an erupting volcano, a bomb blast, eight trucks colliding with an express train, a chainsaw, a jackhammer, and washing machine full of tin cans. Buster ejects my grasp, leaving a trail of lacerated flesh—mine!—and turbo-boosts to the far side of the garden.
I race after him. A glance in the direction of the din reveals Buck, pushing an ancient lawnmower on a mighty steel roller over the stony ground to the side of the house.
“Buster!” I yell. “Buster, come here.” He’s not going to, is he? He’s in self-preservation mode and terrified. What cat ever hung out around a lawnmower? “Shut the fuck up!” I scream at Buck, waving my arms like a madwoman. Buster dives into thick bush, squeezing between the gnarled and twisted stems of plants bowed over by decades of easterly gales, and disappears. I go after him.
“Fuck you, Buster,” I mutter, taking care not to scream, but what’s the point? Nothing will placate a cat choking to death while scared to death!
I’m in, pushing my way through the tightly
woven undergrowth, thick with rotten leaves, going after him on hands and knees. I can’t let Buster die. I can’t heal Lucas, I can’t protect Alice forever, but I can stop Buster dying, or die trying myself. My pullover hooks on a branch and I have to pull my arm out of the sleeve to free myself. It doesn’t work. Now my arm’s stuck and my head. I squirm free, leaving the pullover behind, knotted in the branches, reminding myself that I am a cat person, I am. Just not today.
For a moment, I stop scrambling about in the undergrowth, to listen. A mournful yowl drives me on. Please God, let Buster be stuck, so I can reach him. I jam myself between sticks and stalks, and solid, old, uncooperative deadwood. My jeans rip and the offending sharp, splintery point rams my thigh. I crawl on, knees mashed by old broken shells and salty grit, breaking nails, eyes stinging with sand and slapping twigs. I lose a clump of hair on one of a million protruding branches and bash my knees on rocks. Covered in muck, eyes streaming, I barely register the shredding of my shirt.
I pause. “Buster? Buster, kitty?”
No lawnmower at least, only the loud grunt of the nearby surf, and a shrieking seagull. I’m stuck. That saying dragged through a bush backwards—it’s the same forwards, trust me. I’m up against a wall of vegetation and there’s one thing to do: force my way. I push, grunting, and the wood bends, only to bend back and hit me in the face. I can’t let Buster die. I can’t go through another blue-pyjamas cataclysm. The blue pyjamas aren’t even alive, for crying out.
“Buster!” I’m desperate, breathless, panting, so panicked that I don’t hear it at first. I barely see it; it’s that stealthy.
What—?
Oh God, an alligator! I swallow my heart. No, it’s not an alligator. Like the bear wasn’t a bear, but merely a moose out and about in the wilds of Maine. Dead still, sensible and calm, I swivel my eyes.
An alligator.
A long, wide, brown thing, a stealthy killing machine, slithering on its fat belly three yards to my left. Buster’s dead for sure because this mean beast has his eyes straight ahead. Please, please, please, I pray, take Buster. Eyes squeezed shut, I offer Buster, will him to be eaten instead of me.