Frank
NEAL Roberts smokes. Slender brown cigarettes he keeps in a leather case. The tobacco has an earthy sweetness to it, and combined with the leather it’s a heady scent. He wears cologne, too. It’s subtle, spiced with the warmth of distant places I’ll never see. He splashes it on and then smokes a cigarette out the bathroom window.
The day I died, the only things I could smell were rubbing alcohol, medicinal and harsh, and lemon cleaner. Now, scents that were lost to me—the salty tang of sweat, the cool richness of creek mud, the dry, leathery odor of a dog’s paw—come easily. Like changing stations on the radio, it’s a simple matter of tuning in to the right frequency.
Neal’s cologne, for example. The scent’s not sharp-edged, like the grapes ripening outside; it’s made up of soft, rounded bits that float to all corners of the house and yard. If I concentrate hard enough, I can move them to a place of my choosing, batting them like bubbles through the air.
In the week he’s been here, I’ve discovered I most like to concentrate them over Neal’s head, a homing beacon of sorts for the mosquitoes and wasps that roam the air searching for their next landing spot. It’s nothing personal, I tell myself, or at least not much. Neal’s pleasant enough. He’s handsome, I suppose, with a kind of sophisticated charm you don’t see much in these parts. Andie’s probably brought home worse. But there’s something there, just beneath the surface, that I don’t care for. It shows in his eyes sometimes, a shrewd, calculating glance that weighs the value of Evenfall and everything in it, even Andie.
He’s calling to her now, his voice carrying throughout the house. It reaches me in the attic, and when she doesn’t answer I find him and tag along behind. She’s outside, pulling weeds from between the bricks in the front walk. The cloud of fragrance hangs above his head as he stoops to kiss her. His clothes are clean and neat, unmarked by any stain, and for some reason this annoys me.
“Morning, babe.”
“Morning. You were out early.” Already there’s a faint sheen of sweat on Andie’s forehead, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand before she goes back to work. Andie smells like dirt and sunshine, like the sharp bitter tang of bruised weeds.
Neal watches her for a minute. “Want to take a break and come for a ride with me?”
“Where to?” Andie doesn’t look up.
“The guys at the feed store said some teenager a town over is trying to unload a cache of fireworks. I thought we could pick some up.”
“You went to Baxter’s?” Andie stops working and rocks back on her heels to look up at him.
“Is that what it’s called? Man, it’s a crazy place. Did you know they sell everything from donuts to live ducklings there?”
On a slow Saturday afternoon, I’ve known Henry Baxter to take a tipple or two from the flask he keeps under the counter. He also likes to put a mousetrap in the donut box, to discourage sampling.
“The donuts are only on weekends. And make sure you pay before you reach in to grab one,” Andie says.
“I bought these for your aunt.” Neal holds up a brown paper bag, and pulls out a glass jar filled with golden peach halves. “Seems like the kind of old-timey thing she’d like.”
“Thanks,” Andie says. “But what’s with the fireworks?”
“I don’t know. I just thought, we missed the Fourth, so maybe we should try and do a little something. We could have a barbecue, set some off, and invite your aunt and maybe your dad.”
Richard coming to Evenfall again is as likely as my rising from the dead, and by the snort Andie gives I’d say she agrees. She stands and stretches, then takes the peaches from him.
“Whatever. But if you light so much as a sparkler on the property, Aunt Gert’s liable to have you arrested. She’s not big on the whole burning-down-the-house thing.”
Andie’s not just talking. The woods are dry enough this time of year that they’d go up like kindling.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure that would be a bad thing,” he says, looking around. “Might save a developer some bucks, you know? Your dad didn’t tell me how much work the house needed. Of course, he didn’t tell me about all the antiques, either. The place is loaded.”
“I guess,” Andie says. “I’ve never thought about it that way—as antiques. It’s just stuff that’s always been here.” She looks down at the peaches in her hands, then back up at Neal. “I didn’t know you and Richard had talked about Evenfall at all.”
While Andie and Neal talk, I try my hand at redirecting a yellow jacket. I’ve just gotten it aimed right when Neal jumps. At first I think I’ve been successful, but the bee is just buzzing a confused figure eight pattern over his head. I look again and see that a shadow has detached itself from the house and is heading toward Neal, who takes a step back and trips over Andie’s trowel.
“Jesus.” He staggers but doesn’t fall down.
“Relax, it’s just Nina,” Andie says. The dog steps forward, wagging her tail, and grazes against Neal’s shorts. He pushes her away and brushes at his clothes with his free hand.
“Nice of you to show up,” I say. She whines and rolls over on her back, muddy paws in the air.
If Nina’s here, it’s likely that Cort’s around, too, a thought that’s clearly occurred to Andie. She stands and turns in a slow circle, searching the surrounding woods. Two days ago, Cort was weed-whacking around the grapevines just after sunrise, but by the time Andie got dressed and downstairs, he was gone. Yesterday, the sound of hammering echoed from the woods shortly after dawn, and the noise kept up for over an hour. Both times, Cort’s truck was nowhere to be seen. I’ve a thought as to where it may be, and I wonder if the same thought’s occurred to Andie.
“These shorts are Italian linen, for christsakes,” Neal is saying, still trying to fend off Nina, who has risen and is trying to rub her face against him.
“She’s just trying to say hi,” Andie says, grabbing Nina by the collar with her free hand and dragging her back. Neal opens his mouth to respond, but I’ve finally brought the yellow jacket in for a landing, right where his chest hair peeks out of his pink collared shirt.
“Shit!” Neal slaps at his chest, but the insect is already in the air and happily heading toward the grape vines, its mission accomplished.
“It probably thought you were a flower,” Andie says. “I think there’s a nest of them up in the attic. I keep hearing this humming.”
“Jesus Christ.” He scrunches his neck, trying to see the sting.
“It’s just a little sting,” she says. Her face softens and she comes closer to him, pokes a finger at the swelling. “Come in the house and I’ll put some ice on it.”
He brushes her hand away. “Forget it. Look, there’s a big antique depot on the way—I thought we could stop in and shoot the shit with them for a while. Get some prices for things, so you know what you’re dealing with.”
She shakes her head. “I think I’ll finish up here. You go and I’ll see you later.”
“The damn dog of yours is right in front of my car,” he says.
“It’s not my dog,” Andie says, but whistles anyways, and Nina slowly crosses the yard to her. My niece gives him a kiss before he stomps off, and a moment later his car is roaring down the driveway.
The second he’s gone, Andie turns her attention to Nina, who slinks onto her belly.
“All right, you,” she says. “Where is he?”
The dog squirms until Andie relents and stoops to pat her head. Beads of water glisten in her fur, and she has a damp, earthy smell.
“At the creek, hey?” Andie says, but she doesn’t take the path that leads toward the water. Instead, she looks thoughtfully at the woods before she walks toward Gert’s cottage. She carries the peaches in their brown paper sack, Nina trailing behind.
I consider. Leaving the farm requires more energy than I like. For days after, I’m reduced, an echo of an echo. But if Gert’s up to something, as both my niece and I seem to think, I’m curious to see what i
t is, so I drift along behind.
Andie walks at a quick pace, head down, and in no time we’re at the cottage. Gert’s standing on the front porch, a watering can in her hand. She looks up, and it is as if she’s been waiting for us.
The sun’s behind her, and I can see the outline of her body through the white shirt she wears. She’s thinner than I like, and when she moves I’m overcome by the memory of the warmth of her skin, the sharpness of her hip bones beneath me.
Andie’s said something, but I’ve missed it. I follow her gaze and realize that my first impression—the cottage is more run-down than usual—is wrong. It’s been scraped clean in preparation for painting. And judging by the shingles that litter the ground, the hammering yesterday was somebody working on the roof. Cort’s truck parked at the top of the driveway pretty much eliminates any question of who the somebody is.
A rise in Andie’s pitch catches my attention, and I focus on the conversation. “And I’m just asking why all of a sudden it’s okay for Cort to be outside my bedroom window at six a.m.,” she’s saying. She puts the paper sack down on the porch.
Gert pours water on the morning glories that twine around the cottage’s front railings, ignoring Andie’s impatient exhale. “I have no control over when the boy does his work, Andrea,” she says. “He’s taken on the project as a favor to his mother, and I’m paying him quite a bit less than his labor is worth.”
“Crusty McCallister, the bus driver?” Andie says. “Please. Since when have you been friends with her?”
“Catherine has organized the altar flowers for the past two years, and we’ve struck up a relationship. Of course, if you’d come to church with me on a Sunday, you’d know that.”
“The point of this conversation is not my church attendance,” Andie says. “The point is that you are interfering in my life.”
“And exactly how am I doing that?” Gert asks, turning to face her. “You told me, quite clearly, that Cort wasn’t your boyfriend—that you weren’t interested in him romantically. Or did I misunderstand?”
“Oh no—you understand exactly, Aunt Gert. And all I’m telling you is, butt out.”
“And I’m simply trying to get the property in shape. If Cort is willing to do it, at a price I can afford, then Cort is whom I will hire,” Gert says. “Of course, if I’m missing something, you’re welcome to take it up with him.”
“Fine. That’s just fine,” Andie says. “Just tell me where he is, then—at the creek?”
“I should hope not. I’m certainly not paying him to spend his time fishing.”
If Gert is paying money to the boy, she knows not only where he is, but what he had for breakfast and how many fillings are in his teeth. I can tell Andie would like to call her aunt a liar, but she’s not that mad. Not yet.
“Fine,” Andie says again. “Then I’ll find him myself.”
“Go right ahead,” Gert says. “But I daresay you’ll have plenty of chances to talk with him. There’s still quite a bit of work to be done, you know.”
Andie stares at her aunt. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then turns on her heel and marches back through the woods without a word. She brushes against the sack as she goes, and the glass jar of peaches rolls out and comes to a stop just in front of me.
Her leaving doesn’t seem to upset Gert, who goes back to watering. But then I see that the container is empty; she’s tilting air over the last few plants as she stares at the spot where I’m standing. If I close my eyes I can see it; a rush of silver, ghostly water raining down.
Gert
WHEN Gert comes downstairs from settling the baby, her sister is sitting at the table. Evening is coming; the light from the windows is dim. Even at this hour the kitchen is uncomfortably warm. A row of canned peaches stretches across the countertop. The curve of the fruit reminds Gert of an infant’s cheek, and she looks away and thinks about dinner. It’s been a long few days.
“Frank will be down soon,” Clara says, but she doesn’t stand up. Her hands are folded in her lap, and when she shifts, the cracked and roughened skin of her fingers catches on her blue dress. She catches Gert’s eyes and smoothes the material carefully.
“I’ve saved the extra,” she says. “I’ll use it for a quilt for the baby.”
The material’s the wrong color for a girl, but Gert doesn’t say that. She just nods. But Clara answers as if Gert has contradicted her. “It’s good, soft cloth. I’ll back it with a cambric lining the baby can snuggle into.”
Others might scoff at such frugal ways, but Gert understands. There’s always a reason to save what you can. Most times, you’ll need it later.
These past few days, she’s seen how there are women in Hartman who still envy her sister, all these years later. Women who whisper behind gloved hands at how the daughter of a drunkard could be sitting in the finest house in town. They don’t see how Clara’s own hands aren’t fit to take out of her apron pockets when they come asking for donations for the hospital or the library. They think she’s reached above her place when she doesn’t invite them in for a cool drink or a cup of tea. But Gert’s seen how hard her sister works. She knows you get just as hungry eating air off china as you do off tin. Not that anyone’s going hungry these days. A few chickens, a garden that grows more than flowers, a willingness to dine on leftovers and stretch one dollar six ways to Sunday has seen to that. No one, not even Gert, could have done the job her sister has done here.
Clara smoothes her dress again. “It’s funny seeing you here, dressed like that. When I pictured you, you were always dressed in white, standing over some poor body with its innards cut open.”
Gert’s own skirt is blotchy with the infant’s spit up, stained from her first day at Richard’s house, and it sticks to her with the heat. She lifts it away from her, considers. “That’s near enough, I suppose. Though it never seems to stay white for long.”
Clara eyes the blue silk critically. “The skirt’s as good as ruined, you know. It’s not enough by itself, but if you give it to me, I’ll use it with the leftovers from the baby blanket to make one for you, too. I’ve got a few old workshirts of Frank’s, red ones, that would look real pretty with it.”
“Thank you,” Gert says carefully. “That would be nice.”
Neither of them speaks for a bit. And then, in the moment just before day turns into darkness, Clara stands. She doesn’t look at Gert, but rather through the window over the kitchen sink. The view is of the driveway, and beyond it the tree line that divides the property from the road. She points.
“There’s a cabin of a sorts, that way. They used to use it for the farm workers who came through. There’s no electricity, but it could be put in. And there’s good water. With a little bit of work, it could be fixed up nice.”
“For Richard? It’s a thought,” Gert says. “Keeping him nearby will make it easier for you after I’ve gone.”
Clara shakes her head. “I meant for you. You’ll be coming back, won’t you? For the baby.”
It’s possible, then, for Gert to believe her sister has seen it all. The first day of school, Frank’s eyes following her down the aisle. The two of them bumping shoulders, both faces flushed red. A mud-stained dress. She wonders if a fragment of memory ever breaks free and draws blood from Clara’s conscience.
But her eyes tell the story. Memories might tumble round Clara’s head all day, but by nightfall they’re always worn smooth. This is a gift, and nothing more.
And perhaps she’s right. It’s likely, Gert thinks, she would have regretted it in the end. They hear Frank stirring overhead. Clara turns, cups the lid of the nearest glass jar with her hand. In a moment, she knows, her sister will offer her some, and Gert will refuse. She finds she can’t abide the fruit, with its soft, fuzzy skin, but Frank loves them.
Andie
THE inside of Neal’s rented Saab convertible is hot, even parked in the shade at seven p.m., and the white leather seat burns the back of Andie’s thighs. She pulls her skirt down. A b
ead of sweat drips down her nose, and she can feel a damp patch on the back of her shirt.
She starts the engine, then presses the button that folds back the roof. There’s a whirring sound, and the black top slowly and smoothly rises up, then disappears from view into a space behind the backseat. A neat trick. In Rome, Neal tooled around the streets in a cherry red leased Fiat, a car Andie thinks fits his personality much better. He tried driving Frank’s Nova, but each time he stepped on the gas, the car spluttered, then died. Neal claims it’s the car, but Andie knows he likes to accelerate in a rush, and the Nova needs to be babied. He took the train to Hartford last week to see what was available, and this black Saab was the flashiest thing he could find. It reminds Andie of a boxy, oversized beetle.
She shifts, trying to get comfortable, and the toe of her shoe brushes something. She reaches down and finds Neal’s cigarette case. It’s calfskin leather, monogrammed with his initials: NGR. She’d given it to him two Christmases ago, when his smoking still seemed like a charming foible, one she could easily fix. Holding the case in her hand, she feels her heartbeat slow, and she realizes she’d been worried about what she’d find when she reached under the driver’s seat.
Enough of this. She taps the horn until Neal’s head appears in the upstairs bedroom window. “I’m coming,” he shouts, and Andie sits back, not satisfied, exactly, but pleased at the thought that she’s maybe pissed him off a little.
She knows she’s being bitchy, but she can’t help herself. A year ago she would have given anything for proof of Neal’s love—and if flying across the world to be with her at his busiest time of the year isn’t proof, what is?—but lately she’s not so sure love is what she wants.
She pulls her bag across the seat and searches inside it for her lipstick. The bag, lime green, is a make-up gift from Neal, a prototype of the ones that models will be carrying down the catwalks this fall. She’d simplified a little when she’d explained his job to her aunt; Neal’s not a designer, not exactly. He’s more an opportunist with a good eye, seizing on trends of the day and manufacturing them at a lower price. Her bag could be the real thing—an authentic designer sample—or it could be a cheap knockoff. Andie’s found she prefers not to know.
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