Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 22
Page 11
Grandpa had put out more rat poison two days before, so the mole's presence shouldn't have been any sort of surprise. Even so, I wondered how long it had lain there unnoticed at the edge of the drive, tucked under an invading arch of crab grass. Gran had not ventured out in about two days, of that I was almost sure, and Grandpa had probably confined himself to perfecting the back yard. The intervening days had been hot and muggy, and the mole was likely just a shell, as the first had been. Under the skin, it would be literally seething.
In the moment, I'm sure I didn't come up with such precise vocabulary, but I did realize that I had a choice. I could either deal with the mole, or at least tell Grandpa about it, or I could pretend I hadn't noticed it at all. In another day or two, it would surely be cooked to leather by the sun, and the surviving maggots would have winged away as flies.
As I hesitated, debating, the mole's carcass shifted ever so slightly, and out from underneath crawled the single largest maggot that I have ever to this day beheld or heard of. It wrenched itself free from the mole's underbelly, it raised its faceless face, it got its bearings—and then, with an awful clarity of purpose, it sped directly toward my foot.
It didn't matter that I was several thousand times bigger than that sightless, pallid grub. I panicked. I jumped backward, knocked the Huffy sideways—the bike toppled over with a clatter of spokes and pedals—and I sprinted for the open garage. I grabbed the first shovel I found—a flat-backed spade, almost my height—and I ran to the mole and I slammed the flat of the blade down on that maggot as if my life depended on it.
Crazed and frenzied, I moved on, raining blows on that poor husk of a mole. I hammered and whacked at it until every last maggot was crushed to an unholy jelly. Then I staggered backward to the lawn and collapsed in a heap, bawling to wake the dead.
Neighbors came out of their houses, curious about the fuss. Gran followed Grandpa as they hurried down the steps to the walk, probably thinking I'd wrecked my bike. Six feet away from me, across an ocean of crumbling tarmac, a splatter of flesh and ooze judged in silence, as the guiltless always do.
* * * *
The next morning, more or less recovered, I was back with Gran in the confines of the studio, mixing white and yellow and sepia into a warm but waning light, the sort of light I wanted to have glowing from my cabin's single window. I did my best work on that glass, there and on the snow beneath, where I allowed the light from the cabin to spill out onto a midwinter drift, a cruel echo of the cozy air inside.
"Does anyone visit this cabin?” Gran asked.
"Not really."
"Who lives there?” Gran asked.
"I don't know."
"You know."
"Well.” I squirmed. “Maybe me, sometimes."
"Maybe you. Sometimes."
She paused long enough to inspect my brushes, still damp with thinner and laid across a paper towel like bodies, victims of some nameless disaster. An earthquake, perhaps. A devastation of plague.
When next she spoke, it was in a different voice, the kind that required that she clear her throat. Whether it was lecture or sermon, I'm still not sure. Perhaps she was speaking to herself.
"Unless you're a hack, Nathan—and I trust that you are not—then painting is a trade that leaves scars. Wounds, even. Some stay open, they bleed. They bleed over into real life, into friendships and family. May God forgive me for both."
Had the room grown darker, or was that my imagination? I suspect a trick of memory, the danger of looking back from where I stand today, forty-three and growing older by the second. My mind's eye has that painterly impulse to shift and smudge, so while I know it may not be a literal truth, I emboss her words with an image equally dark and unruly.
Regardless, I am sure of what she said next, and of how she said it. She patted my head, she ran her dry-skinned fingers through my hair. She laughed!
"Oh, my poor sweet Nathan. The paint is in your blood, like it or not. Now I will always know what to send you for your birthdays."
* * * *
But Gran died in November, and I have spent the last thirty-five years procuring everything I need—paints, brushes, frames and an endless supply of time—for myself.
My first painting doesn't hang from a prominent spot on my wall. Its place of honor is a box in the attic. I have told myself for years now that the only reason it isn't up where family and friends can see it is because it simply isn't very good. The fact is, I keep it hidden because the honesty of that first image frightens me. A simple cabin, lit from within, engulfed by lonely winter twilight. I included a copse of trees on the crest of a low hill, but other than that, the landscape shows nothing but storm-gray clouds and snow.
And on the cabin, not even a door.
It took me years to notice that, but apparently it never occurred to my eight-year-old sense of design to add a means of exit or entrance. I don't count the window. It's the old fashioned kind, primitive and sealed. And so I am tormented by a question: Were I to transform into Alice Liddell and enter a looking-glass world, would I discover a door on one of those two unseen walls? Or did I paint myself a prison?
* * * *
There we have it, the incomplete story of Paints, grandson of Paints No More. It began in shadow. It ends, for now, like this:
Grandpa died a year after Gran, and the house was sold. In general, the estate was left in equal portions to the three children, for them to divvy up among themselves and the nine grandchildren as best they could. I, however, thanks to a special codicil, received the entire contents of one particular portfolio. I have it still, of course. I keep it locked in a steamer trunk bought especially to house those lost, dangerous paintings.
Not so dangerous, perhaps. I dig them out now and again and show them to my wife, to my children. I want to share with them my version of life's myriad possibilities. I want my cabin to have a door.
And so we put on Schubert for safety, and we spread Gran's images across the floor, and we try to tear our eyes from the strange clumps of flowers. We hardly know what to make of what we see, but we are born again in the viewing, reincarnated a thousand times over. To exorcise the demons of sight and premonition, we tell fresh stories to explain each canvas, and I, like Arthur's Taliesyn, relate the life-threads that Gran herself attached so many years ago. We peer through the greenery toward what huddles and clusters beneath, and then we shiver, we cling together, and we swear the damned things aren't moving.
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Dearest Cecily
Kristine Dikeman
Gwendolyn Marsh to Professor Cecily Howe, April 4th
Dearest Cecily,
Oh my wonderful Cec, how shall I begin? Your sweet gift is too clever for words. A genuine Polynesian tiki? He must have cost the earth. I should have thought the local authorities frowned on the export of such treasures, particularly one of such magnificent workmanship. But you mustn't think I'm accusing you of anything, darling Cecily. You're so very clever, I suppose you found some wonderfully inventive way to acquire him; you so rarely let things like laws and local customs stand in the way of what you want. He's simply too adorable, squatting and brandishing his fierce spear. And he's so remarkably—how shall I say—well equipped? From his ... attributes I deduce he is a fertility tiki. The inscription along the bottom somewhat resembles ancient Niuatoputapu, but it's not quite the same, is it? Do I sense a sly little test from my dear teacher?
Never fear, I've dusted off my notebooks, I'm deciphering just as quickly as I can. It's been ages since I've gotten my hands dirty with translation work, and I find it a welcome distraction from all these terribly boring wedding and honeymoon details.
Your good friend,
Gwendolyn
PS. Though I didn't send you an invitation, I hope you'll consider coming to the wedding. We've had several last minute cancellations, so there's room now. Do let me know if you need help picking something suitable to wear. I've attached an updated registry.
P
rofessor Cecily Howe to Gwendolyn Marsh, April 12th
Gwendolyn,
I'm sorry to say I won't be able to attend your wedding, but I'll be thinking of you and Roger on your special day, that's a promise.
How goes the translation? Making any progress? I can send you a hint, if you're having trouble.
Best,
Cecily
From Gwendolyn Marsh to Professor Cecily Howe, April 24th
My Dear,
No hints! Not the eeeniest one! I'm having such fun with your little challenge. It takes me back to my days as your assistant, accompanying you on those jolly expeditions, typing your notes, sitting in the lecture hall for hours on end listening to your fascinating talks. And how could I forget dear little Jojo, and our walks? How I miss those carefree days.
My wee tiki man and his funny secret are welcome distractions just now. The decisions one must make when planning a wedding—especially one as elaborate as mine. Every minor detail requires such hand wringing, such soul searching—but it's really impossible to understand until one has gone through it oneself. Take my advice, when—someday—the time comes for you to tie the knot, elope. I wish now that we had, I truly do. Still, it will all be perfect in the end, and that is what counts.
Sweet Cecily, what I love best about your present is that it means you really, truly have forgiven us. Roger and I are so happy, so blissful, I know our love was meant to be, and this little figurine tells me you've finally come to see that, too. How like you to bless our wedding in such an unconventional way. You have a very beautiful soul, and I just know that—someday—you're going to find a wonderful man to marry, someone just meant for you, the way Roger is meant for me.
Roger and I are so sorry you aren't able to come to the wedding. But after our honeymoon—we're spending an entire month in the glorious south of France—I'm going to ask you to luncheon, and I hope, I just really hope that you say yes, because I'm going to have ever so much to tell you.
Your good friend,
Gwendolyn
From the same, to the same, May 10th
You unspeakable bitch—
How could you? Roger is livid. If you had some idea this would win him back, you are even crazier than I thought.
Do you think I won't find a way to fix this? I might not have as much experience as you, since I'm not NEARLY as OLD as you, but I've got friends, and I've got money, and I will find a way. And then I'll fix you, you pathetic old cow. I am NOT your assistant anymore. you can't treat me this way and get away with it. This isn't over.
Mrs. Gwendolyn Pierce
PS. The wedding was perfect. The cake was perfect, the dress was perfect, and I looked perfect. AND IF ANYONE SAYS DIFFERENT, THEY ARE FUCKING LIARS. YOU ARE A HORRIBLE NASTY OLD WITCH AND I HATE YOU.
Professor Cecily Howe to Gwendolyn Pierce (nee Marsh), May 16th
Gwendolyn,
Really, my dear, such language. I'm afraid you've let your humble beginnings show, just the “eeniest” bit.
I knew you'd see the translation for what it was: a challenge—something you've always been game for. How perfect that you completed it in time for the ceremony; I imagine you were hoping to show off in front of Roger's colleagues at the reception. He's a fierce little warrior, your chastity tiki, and absolutely unique. He was crafted by a Polynesian shaman-king with a beautiful daughter he wished to keep safe from marauding tribes. Once the princess held the little fellow tight and recited the inscription, any man that looked upon her with desire would become violently ill on the instant. It's nice to know the spell still works so effectively after all these years—they just don't make black magic like that anymore. My sources tell me your walk down the aisle was truly unforgettable. I know an excellent cleaning service, should you need help getting the vomit stains out of Roger's Persian rug. He is so very fond of all his pretty things.
Your first impression was correct. The tiki did cost me a great deal, but it was a small price to pay to give you and Roger the wedding you deserved. Pity I didn't think to ask for the counter-spell that releases the victim from his protection. Oh well, Tongapukau is lovely this time of year. The rainy season is almost over, and I'm told the malaria problem is well under control. Since your honeymoon trip to France is off, perhaps you can exchange your tickets.
My sources tell me you and Roger have worked out the most charming method of communication. Lucky him. You do write such lovely letters.
Kisses,
Cecily
From the same to the same, August 10th
Gwendolyn—
Well my goodness. How gratifying to know that at least one of my lectures managed to penetrate that pretty little head of yours.
Where did you find it? South Africa? Brazil? It must have cost a very large pile of Roger's money, though I suppose he didn't quaver. Tracking it down must have been a small price to pay for your forgiveness, especially after having projectile-vomited red wine all over your white satin shoes. Did you plant it yourself, Gwennie, or hire someone to do it for you? I'd like to think Roger gave you his old house keys—safely slid under the door, of course—and you stole into the greenhouse by moonlight to bury the seed amongst the orchids. The legend says it must be planted with the heart of a virgin to germinate. Wherever did you find one in this day and age, I wonder?
Carnivorous succulus terribilis, the largest, deadliest man-eating plant of them all. Whoever your poor virgin was, he or she was the genuine article—the thing sprang up to quite a height. But I'm sorry to report the damage was minimal; just a few broken panes of glass in the greenhouse, although it should make an interesting paper at the Horticultural Society's annual meeting next year. So kind of you to provide me with a topic.
Better luck next time, Gwennie. Do give my love to Roger, the next time you write him.
Cecily
Gwendolyn Pierce (nee Marsh), to Professor Cecily Howe August 16th
Dear Cecily—
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
You really are a terrible liar. Pretend all you want, you're not the only one with “sources.” The Thunder Plant destroyed your greenhouse and ate your stinky old Pekinese, along with most of your left hand and the gardener's son before you chopped it down. My “source” says the neighbors took your screams for an air-raid siren. How totally unladylike.
And just to let you know, Daddy has sent a telegram; he's VERY CLOSE to tracking down the counter-spell for that foul little tiki. And Roger and I are doing just FINE. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And you're right, I do write lovely letters, and it's very romantic, the way we talk to each other through our little notes. And we DO see each other from time to time, and Roger has actually lost his little tummy—not that he needed to, I thought he was perfect the way he was. But now he looks EVEN BETTER.
So HA.HA.HA. You horrible old thing.
Gwendolyn PIERCE
Professor Cecily Howe to Gwendolyn Marsh, August 15th
Gwennie,
Sticks and stones, my dear. Yes, it's true, your nasty little geranium on steroids made off with my sweet JoJo and Hector's little boy before we could bring it down. As for my fingers, the surgeon did a wonderful reconstruct. It's amazing what a talented doctor can do with good donor material.
On that subject, you'll be disappointed to hear that I've located your “source.” Hector was very happy to take care of that little problem for me. She never was a very good cook, though fortunately for me she did take very good care of her hands.
Speaking of small sacrifices, I've discovered the donor of the pure virgin heart you used to sprout your green monster. Really, Gwennie, your own stepsister? The poor child couldn't have been more than fourteen. Whatever will your father say when someone tells him? Why, he might be upset enough to call off his search for your cure. That would be a pity.
A word about Roger and his undying postal devotion; have you ever wondered what he's up to all day as you bend over your writing desk, declaring your endless love in rose-colored ink on scented paper? Y
ou might remember it was during my extended stay in the catacombs of Paris when you first caught Roger's eye. You were home recovering from our little adventure in the Necropolis, and he was only being kind, checking in on you. Every day. I wonder, who is he being kind to now? You should thank me, really, for your forced separation. Roger is very like an Impressionist painting—dazzling from a distance, but apt to cause headache on close examination.
We're having a memorial service tomorrow for JoJo and Hector's boy. I haven't sent you an invitation, but feel free to attend. I have a full-length yellow rain slicker you can borrow, to keep the menfolk from ruining your clothes.
And now, I believe it's my turn again, isn't it? You must be terribly bored, tucked away in that pokey little garret at the top of Roger's house. I'll have to see if I can't scare up something—or someone—to keep you company.
Cecily
Gwendolyn Pierce, to Professor Cecily Howe August 28th
You aren't nearly as clever as you think you are. I'm sure you think I'm upset, having my stepsister back. For your information, June and I get along QUITE WELL, even now that she's undead. She was VERY HAPPY to help me with the Thunder Plant, she knew how much it meant to me and I'm sure she even would have volunteered, given time to think it over. I just didn't have the time, was all, and so I just helped her help me, and she's FINE with that. So it's really very nice that you sent her back to me, and THANK YOU very much. Up until now I only had a picture of her from my wedding, in her lovely bridesmaid dress of chiffon taffeta to remember her by, and now she's right here with me, all the time.
Did you use some tacky necromancer to raise her? Or a wrinkled hag with a vulgar silk turban and scratched crystal ball? I hope it was expensive. You must be almost bankrupt by now, Cecily. I know you lost your teaching post after the newspaper printed those pictures of you in your nightgown, holding JoJo's head. It's sad really, your life is just falling apart, and here I am in my lovely room, with my wonderful, faithful husband writing me beautiful letters just all the time, and my devoted stepsister to keep me company every minute of the day.