Child of a Rainless Year

by Lindskold, Jane

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Sorry,” he said, settling back in his chair.

  “Sorry,” I echoed. “This is making me nervous. I should feel, I don’t know, foolish but excited, like a teenager trying out a Ouija board, but what I feel is tense.”

  “The difference is, Mira,” Domingo said, “that the teenager doesn’t really believe in the Ouija board. She hopes it will do something, but she doesn’t really believe. If the arrows point to something that makes sense, then she gets more excited, because now she has a reason to continue with the game, not because she really believes.”

  “You sound like you know. Was Evelina interested in the occult?”

  Domingo grinned and spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. “I could have said ‘he’ as easily as ‘she.’ Boys as well as girls play with such things.”

  “I never tried a Ouija board,” I said. “No one I knew had one, but my mother—that is my Aunt May—and I bought some Tarot cards and tried them. Aunt May was interested in the occult, and I loved the brightly colored pictures on the cards. I considered collecting them for a while, but then I realized just how many different decks there were and, well, that they were all run off on printing presses somewhere. I think for something to be really magical, it would need to be handmade.”

  “Like these,” Domingo said, gesturing toward the rows of kaleidoscopes I had just revealed. “Each of these is handmade, each a little love affair between the artist and beauty.”

  I looked at the kaleidoscopes, then at Domingo, wondering how I could ever have thought him a crude opportunist.

  This house is full of ghosts, Mira, I said to myself. Maybe the lines between your thoughts and Colette’s long ago crossed as you stood on the threshold to her room.

  I suppressed a shiver at the thought, and reached into the drawer, picking up the first kaleidoscope my hand fell upon. The dominant colors on this one’s casing were rose and crystal, accented by the silver solder used to hold the pieces of stained glass together. The object case was one of those external wheels you turn, this one a separate masterwork in stained glass. Cut crystals, teardrops of translucent glass in rose and pearl, and shards of glass had been delicately fitted together, the lines of solder spiderweb delicate, and spiderweb strong.

  “I don’t think I’ve looked through this one,” I said. “I prefer the ones where the items in the object case are either loose or suspended in liquid These color wheels are nice, but too predictable after a while.”

  “But the first time,” Domingo said practically, “and the second and the third, even, they are not predictable at all. Moreover, these are perhaps the loveliest of all kaleidoscopes when not in use.”

  “Good point,” I agreed, lifting the kaleidoscope to my eye and peering through the eyepiece. “And this one is truly lovely.”

  I spent a moment oohing and ahhing at the varied images, handing the kaleidoscope to Domingo so he could share those I thought best. He in turn shifted the wheel and shared his favorites with me. I noticed he liked those where the darker pinks dominated, where I leaned toward lacework fantasies where the crystal fluted against the pinks and made the pinks—at least to my eye—more vivid by contrast.

  “This is fun,” I said after a bit, “but what should I try next, do you think? Another kaleidoscope?”

  “Stay with this one,” Domingo urged. “Relax and study. Talk to me as you did last night, if that will help. Otherwise, I will sit here and let you forget I am here.”

  As if I could, I thought, but aloud all I said was, “Sounds as good a plan as any I have, and better than most.”

  I raised the kaleidoscope again, then lowered it immediately.

  “Maybe we should take one of the teleidoscopes down to the Plaza and see if we see Paula Angel. Maybe the teleidoscopes would help me show her to you. I’ve been worrying you think I’m crazy.”

  “It gets dark earlier now, Mira,” Domingo said practically. “By the time we made it to the Plaza, it would not be good kaleidoscope light—and anyone walking by would think us both crazy, staring through kaleidoscopes in the twilight. I think you’re nervous again. Would you rather wait until another day? Have me go home and let you rest.”

  “No and no,” I said. “I don’t want to wait—if I do it’s going to hang over my head—and I don’t want you to go. You’re right. I’m nervous, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  I raised the kaleidoscope again and focused very carefully. When I was comfortable, I started turning the color wheel at the end, small turns that changed the image by only the smallest amount. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I thought this was the best way to be sure I found it.

  After one full rotation and then another I lowered the kaleidoscope and frowned at it, turning it front to back so I could study the stained-glass wheel at the end. Then, very carefully, I gave it a gentle shake, holding the barrel close to my ear.

  “Something wrong, Mira?” Domingo asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or something right. I’ve spotted something that doesn’t fit.”

  “Doesn’t fit?”

  “A singularity in a world of multiplicity.” Domingo made an encouraging noise, so I went on. “What I mean is every image in a kaleidoscope is multiplied by the mirrors. Even near the center where it can look like there is a single image, what you’re seeing is several images overlapping so closely that they look like a single entity.”

  “Go on.”

  “But there’s a single image—a white rectangle—that I have glimpsed a few times. I just looked at the object case here, and there’s nothing on it that shape. I suppose there could be something loose in the barrel, but I didn’t hear anything, and both ends of the barrel are sealed as they should be.”

  “Try again,” Domingo urged. “Focus on that white rectangle. Is there anything else about it you can notice?”

  I did as he requested, talking out loud as I looked through the eyepiece. “It’s not there. No, wait. There it is. It’s off to the right, middle of the panel—and there’s nothing to match it anywhere else.”

  “A rectangle,” I heard Domingo say. “Like a door?”

  “No, not quite, proportions aren’t right. More like a standard sheet of paper, eight and a half by eleven.”

  “Any writing on it?” I heard the laughter in Domingo’s voice and knew he was making a joke.

  “Actually,” I said, “there’s something.”

  I focused in, doing my best to eliminate the confusion of colors around the white rectangle. Either the white rectangle was getting larger, or my vision was getting better, because I was now certain that there was something written on the white. I felt myself focusing as I’d learned to do once I realized that nothing is just one color—that a lawn is made up of numerous shades of green and yellow and brown all intermingled to different degrees; that a newspaper cartoon varies in shade depending not only on the inks, but on the paper; that a computer image is made up of minute dots.

  My mind fastened on the degrees of difference in a fashion that had nothing to do with the quality of my eyesight, and I realized that what I was seeing were handwritten words, blue ink against white paper. They said: “Mira, Since you can see this you need to call me. I strongly suggest you do so before you involve yourself further in matters whose consequences you do not fully comprehend.” Then came a phone number with an area code I didn’t recognize. “Please call me.” The note was signed, “Michael Hart.”

  I stared at the note, mechanically reciting the phone number over and over again until I was sure I had it fixed in my memory, then I lowered the kaleidoscope. Domingo, pen in hand, was staring at me. The phone number—no hyphens, just a sequence of ten numbers, was written on a scrap of paper he had balanced on his knee.

  “You want to tell me why you kept repeating this number?” Domingo said with that deceptive mildness some men use rather than shouting.

  My head swam and I put the kaleidoscope down with very deliberate care. I felt wru
ng out, or tottery drunk, or like I was recovering from a high fever. Nothing seemed real but the colored patterns of rose and crystal still dancing against my memory.

  “The white rectangle,” I said, “was a note. A note from Michael Hart. He was one of my trustees when I first went to live with the Fenns. He said to call him.”

  “And this is his phone number?” Domingo asked, fluttering the piece of paper.

  I nodded. Exhaustion was now blending with nausea. I didn’t know whether I wanted to sleep or vomit. One thing I knew. I couldn’t stay sitting upright one moment longer. I toppled to the side in the delicate vanity chair, wondering idly if I would hit the open drawer and break it.

  Domingo reached to stay my fall—but it was the silent women who caught me. Two of them, dressed in housekeeping dresses from another era, their long hair pulled up and back, tucked under little caps. Their hands were firm and strong, and at their touch I remembered being dressed by them, being tucked into bed by them, even little pats on my head.

  They bore me up and off. I don’t think I broke anything.

  I awoke the next morning to the sunlight streaming in my bedroom windows. Birds were singing. I closed my eyes and listened to the birds for a while, until the scent of coffee brought me fully awake.

  I opened my eyes, half-expecting to see a cup of coffee waiting for me on a tray borne hence by invisible hands. What I saw was Domingo. He was sitting in a chair he’d pulled up alongside the bed, a mug of coffee steaming between his cupped hands, a worried expression on his face.

  I smiled at him, and at his answering smile remembered what—or more appropriately, what not—I usually wore to bed. My hands flew to make sure the covers were pulled up for modesty’s sake, and Domingo chuckled.

  “You are decent, as the saying goes. Even more, sitting here on the bedside table is a very nice piece of clothing, what I believe is called a bed-jacket. Would you like me to hand it to you? I don’t see how you can have any coffee with the blanket pulled to your chin.”

  “Thank you,” I replied with what dignity I could manage. “I’ll take the bed-jacket, and ask you to turn your back.”

  “Even better,” Domingo said. “I will turn my back, and close my eyes. Like elsewhere in this house, this room has many mirrors. Please applaud me for being a perfect gentleman.”

  “I will,” I promised, accepting both the proffered item of clothing and his offer of courtesy. The latter thrilled me. You don’t make a big deal about keeping your eyes to yourself if you haven’t thought otherwise, do you?

  The bed-jacket certainly wasn’t anything I had brought with me, nor did it have the lavender and cedar scent of something stored away. The colors, a delicate violet floral print against the palest of blues, were flattering to my coloring. I had a mental image of the silent women who had sewn for my mother. Had they run this up last night while I slept? I was beyond refusing to consider the possibility.

  Then again, they might have found it in a trunk in the attic and washed it. They might even have run the new machines. I could imagine their delight. I’d bought good ones.

  “You may open your eyes and turn around,” I said when I had myself suitably attired and propped up against a couple of pillows. “And you said something about coffee …”

  Domingo bowed over his hand, then poured me a cup from the carafe waiting on one of the highboys.

  “Good,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you for the coffee and for your gentlemanly courtesy. May I ask what happened last night?”

  “What do you remember?” he asked, his expression keen.

  “I remember a letter from Mr. Hart telling me to call and giving a phone number. I remember being very tired and dizzy. Then I think I fainted. I felt hands catch me, but they weren’t yours. They belonged to the silent women.”

  “So they did,” Domingo agreed.

  His voice, which could talk about the needs and desires of the House without sounding anything other than matter-of-fact, was alive with wonder now.

  “They caught you, keeping you from crashing into the drawer full of kaleidoscopes—which would have been very bad for both you and for the kaleidoscopes. I might have caught you, but not without being much more clumsy. I offered to pick you up, and they accepted my offer with great politeness, directing me to carry you across the landing to your room. Once I had you on the bed, they ushered me out with tremendous officiousness, telling me that they could get you ready for bed, that they had done so often enough before. Then one showed me out, and told me I might call again in the morning. When I came by this morning, the kitchen door was open, but no one was around. I did, however, find the coffee things laid ready, and knew you well enough to take a hint.”

  I blinked at this speech, then shook my head in wonder.

  “‘They,’ you say. How many were there?”

  “Two. Both ladies of uncertain age and race. They could have been taken for Hispanic or Anglo—although probably not for Indians, and certainly not for Negroes. They were dressed in long skirts, but moved in them as easily or practically as you do in jeans.”

  “And certainly more gracefully,” I said ruefully. “Long skirts worn right do cover a multitude of sins. Modern girls make the mistake of walking in a skirt as if they are still wearing jeans and end up looking terrible.”

  “You,” Domingo said, “never make that mistake.”

  “Well,” I replied, pleased at the compliment, “I did grow up Colette’s daughter. Poor Aunt May had to wean me of my taste for finery, and never did quite succeed.”

  “I’m glad,” Domingo said. “I like seeing you dressed up.”

  He cleared his throat, suddenly, probably aware that he was flirting, if ever so delicately, with a woman wearing nothing but a bed-jacket.

  “Tell me, Mira, are you going to do what that note said? Are you going to call Michael Hart?”

  “I am,” I replied with more firmness than I felt. “But first I want a shower and breakfast. Would you like to come back in about forty minutes and join me for something to eat?”

  Domingo rose. “Unless you think you might need help in your ablutions. I would be happy to offer a steady arm to lean upon.”

  I smiled, but now that I felt certain of his interest, I had no desire to go at this ass-backward, and somehow I thought that, masculine male or not, neither, really, did Domingo.

  “Come back for breakfast,” I said. “I think we both have had ample proof that for some reason this House doesn’t want me to fall.”

  Thirty-five minutes later I was in the kitchen. The silent women might have manifested last night more vigorously than ever before, but they hadn’t yet stepped into the routine servant roles they had held during my mother’s tenure. I found the kitchen clean, and the coffeepot washed and waiting in the dish rack, but no bacon sizzling or waffles emitting fragrant steam from the big, chrome-plated waffle iron I’d found in one of the cabinets.

  I could make do, though, with what I had, and by the time Domingo arrived I was mixing up a batch of waffle batter, and bacon was defrosting in the microwave.

  “Anything I can do?” he asked.

  “I’d like more coffee,” I said, “but it had better be decaf this time. That okay with you?”

  “Just so. My nerves are dancing enough already, I think.”

  “Great. I’m making waffles. I found a waffle iron a couple weeks ago, and tested it. Seemed to still work, but if it doesn’t I suppose we can have pancakes from the same batter.”

  “Wonderful,” Domingo said, raising his voice to be heard over the coffee grinder. “And Blanco is certain that he smells bacon.”

  “He does indeed. We could cook it right in the microwave, but it never seems to taste quite right when you do it that way, not crisp enough. I thought I’d get a skillet going as soon as the waffles were started.”

  “Let me,” Domingo said. “Tell me where to find a frying pan.”

  I did, and Domingo handled the bacon while I located syrup and butter, and set th
e table. The waffle iron worked as if it had been waiting for just this chance to show more modem appliances what they lacked, and I felt the last of my flagging energy restored as I devoured a couple of the rich, buttery squares. As I ate, I realized what had been missing in the morning sounds.

  “Where’s the painting crew?”

  “I told them I had an emergency job for them else where. I thought you might need some privacy.”

  “Thanks. Did you have a job?”

  “I found one.”

  I nodded. Unsure how to interpret this coddling, I changed the subject.

  “I looked up Mr. Hart’s area code in the directory,” I said. “He lives in Minnesota—or at least he’s taking phone calls there these days.”