by Lisa Wingate
The dog’s toenails clicked as she belly-crawled in my wake, following through the receiving room, then stopping, then following again as I moved past the kitchen and the double doors to the library, continued toward an evening parlor that my mother and Clyde had used as a living room.
Ahead, Clyde’s shadow whisked from the doorway, and both he and the furniture moaned as he rose. Heavy steps crossed the room, moving in the other direction.
He was … running away? That wasn’t like the man I remembered. He wasn’t one to back down from a fight. My few visits here had always been a power play, with Mom in the middle. Now I prepared myself to meet a broken, confused old man, a shell of my former enemy. But when I stepped into the room, white-knuckled fists and a baseball bat waited instead. Thin and stooped, his back bowed, my stepfather looked nonetheless formidable. Despite the fact that he swayed on his feet, I stopped where I was.
The rectangle of light spilling through the parlor door and my own silhouette reflected against his eyeglasses. I saw the dog creeping up behind me, heard her growl nervously, uncertain how to interpret the situation.
I thought of my cousin’s dream, her warning to me.
“Clyde, put down the bat. It’s Whitney. Patricia’s daughter.” Maybe he couldn’t see who I was. The curtains were closed, making the room unnaturally dark. “I’m just here to talk. Put down the bat.” I reached for my cell phone. “Clyde, if you don’t stop that, I’m calling the police.”
I prepared to run. How fast would he be able to move in his present condition? Surely I could make it to the porch and into the stairwell before he could catch me. What about the dog? Was she still behind me?
What would she do if Clyde went on the attack?
I forced myself not to back away, flinch, turn to check the dog’s position. The baseball bat slowly tipped, drooping forward, Clyde’s thin arm collapsing under its weight. Like a cardboard cutout left standing in the rain, he wilted into my mother’s chair, landing first on the armrest, then sliding to the cushion where I’d slept last night among scents and memories.
Sidestepping, I took the edge of the rocking chair by the window, turned, and opened the curtain to let in a spill of murky light. I tucked my hands between knees that felt like they were made of hot wax. The dog, still eyeballing me, slinked past and adopted a defensive position beside Clyde, her nervous panting the only noise in the room. Together, she and my stepfather were a picture of misery. He seemed so much older than I remembered, as if the sea had slowly weathered him these past five years.
“We have some things we need to discuss,” I said finally.
He didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard me.
“Clyde, I came here for a couple reasons. First, your neighbor called me because he was concerned about you. I’m wondering if you’ve been in touch at all with James or Jared … or anyone in your family, and whether they know about your fall? I thought that might’ve been where you went when you left the hospital.”
Hope crept upward, even though I knew I was grasping at straws. This could all be so simple, if Clyde would only listen to reason. “I think you need to face the fact that it’s time some decisions were made. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but you’ve never been one to beat around the bush. The reality is what it is. I’m here to help you in any way I can—out of respect for my mother. I think it’s what she would’ve wanted me to do.” It galled me, offering this kindness, even now. I remembered the disruption he’d caused at the funeral, the way he’d announced that none of us had better come anywhere near the Excelsior. The shock of my mother’s death had held me numb until that moment. Clyde’s challenge had brought the pain roaring in.
Yet now, looking at the shrunken remnants slouched and wheezing in my mother’s chair, I saw my stepfather as almost a victim too. Old age had come to claim him. Old age or guilt. Or both.
“Don’t you bring her into it. You’re not here because a her. I know why you showed up here all a sudden. Thought you could sneak in and take it while I was laid up, didn’t ya?” He turned my way, his gaze anger-filled, as if somehow this situation between us, this war, were my fault.
Uncertainty niggled. I felt like a shrew, but I willed myself not to back down. I’d been more than generous, never fighting him for the building. But now, I had no choice. “If you’re talking about my building, yes, I do want it. This isn’t a good place for you, Clyde. You could just as easily have been found dead after that fall in the bathroom. You can’t stay here by yourself anymore.”
He turned his cheek to me, angling toward the opposite wall. Strips of storm-dulled light fell unevenly over his face, shading and highlighting a landscape of lines and folds. Outside, distant thunder rattled the sky. “Woulda been better thataway. Been better if they just didn’t find me.”
“Clyde, you don’t mean that.” Something in me softened. I worked quickly to crystallize it again, but it wouldn’t take the same shape. “Let me call James or Jared for you, explain what happened and see if—”
“Don’t want it. Go home, Whitney. You wait a little longer, maybe next time you come, I’ll be outta the way for good. ’Til then, I got a legal right.”
I pressed my fingers to my mouth, stopping a torrential spill of venom that would’ve only made things worse. Breathe. Be calm. “I’m not leaving right now. I’ll be here for a few days, if not longer. I plan to sort through the mess on the second floor, at the very least. Those were my father’s family belongings. My mother left them for me. I’ll be staying here in Mom’s craft room. There’s no sense in my spending money on a hotel.”
Surprisingly, he didn’t argue, but only pinned me with a narrow glare and growled, “Don’t you touch a thing a hers. Don’t you even think you’re gonna take one thing outta these rooms up here on the third floor. You’ll go through me first.”
Judging by the look on the antique store owner’s face, the verdict on the books wasn’t promising. I’d brought in the leather-bound copy of The Open Boat, along with several others. The shopkeeper was a friend of Joel Coates’s—someone Joel promised I could trust to give me an honest appraisal and possibly an offer.
There were other things I wanted to have evaluated, but the books seemed a safe place to start. In two days of working on the second floor, I’d developed a system that I hoped would make a cleanout of the building and assessment of the contents at least a little more efficient. The first couple of hotel rooms at the end of the hall were my catchall places. In one, I’d collected items that qualified as vintage, but not necessarily antique. In the other, I’d left the old hotel furniture and, box by box, begun to add junk that was only fit for the garbage.
In a corner of the salon, I’d started a collection of bona fide antiques—everything from small parlor tables to a few pieces of jewelry I’d found tucked in odd places¸ including the brooch and the necklace from the davenport desk.
I’d been hoping to get a feel for things by trying this first transaction. So far, this trip wasn’t a confidence builder.
“A few of them are worth a little money as collectibles.” The man frowned across the counter, seeming either uninterested or suspicious of my motives. “The rest, I can’t use. If you just want to get rid of them, I can give you the number for a guy over in Norfolk who makes shelves and end tables and other folk art pieces from old books. He’ll probably take whatever you’ve got in the building, as long as they’re hardbound and the covers have age to them.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. I doubted the man was lying to me, but considering how militant my grandmother had been about not letting me handle the books, the news stung in more ways than one. “Think he’d be interested in old encyclopedias and reference books, too?” It was a nice thought, at least—Lucianne’s prized set ending up as art furniture, rather than in a trash bin. She’d like that.
“I imagine he would, if you want to bother hauling them in. I’m sure those wouldn’t be worth much. They’ve gone the way of
the dinosaurs, haven’t they—encyclopedias?”
“True.” We exchanged the look … the one you share with people who remember back when and sort of miss it.
He turned again to the copy of The Open Boat, carefully thumbing the pages. With his grizzly, gray-bearded chin and blue corduroy Nelson cap, he looked like he belonged in the story. “May I tell you something?”
“Sure.” I blinked, stood back a little, disturbed by the sudden change in conversational tone.
“Breaking up the collection—whatever remains of Ziltha Benoit’s estate—isn’t a matter to be taken lightly. I know some things might have been removed from the place during her declining years, but what’s left should be cataloged and carefully appraised, so that something of real value doesn’t end up in the trash or at Goodwill.”
Shock hit first, then indignation, and finally guilt brought up the rear. Guilt and I had become old friends these past few days. I felt its incessant gnawing every time I passed by Clyde, who sat rooted in the recliner next to my mother’s, the baseball bat propped nearby as he stubbornly fixated on the blaring television and pretended I wasn’t there.
The look on the antique dealer’s face was much like Clyde’s. It accused me of something. Everyone in town, with the exception of Joel Coates and perhaps Casey Turner, whose business-card invitation I still hadn’t responded to, had already formed opinions of me. It shouldn’t have surprised me that this store owner knew who I was. In this little Mayberry-by-the-sea, the locals were aware of everything. Where I was concerned, the usual friendliness didn’t seem to apply. Suspicious looks came my way and whispers followed me in restaurants, the drugstore, the grocery store.
“I’m not sure there’s much left,” I told him, and a skeptical look came my way.
There was no point trying to explain myself, so I sold him the few books he wanted, then took the number of the buyer in Norfolk. When I had time, I’d call and see if he might make the trip over to pick up the whole library load.
If only the thief had made off with those, rather than jewelry and silver.
Had my mother known how much was missing? Had she even spent any time downstairs, other than to store things there? Had Clyde removed things from the second floor? Maybe sold them?
I wouldn’t find out by asking him, since he either didn’t respond to my questions or, if necessary, answered with a gruff word or two.
Clyde, I’m going out to grab a hamburger. Do you want me to get something for you?
Mmmmph.
A hamburger, then?
Ummmph.
Do you have food for the dog … and a leash? Is there a place you usually walk her?
Mmmrrr-park-rrr-guess.
I’d gathered that the dog was a stray. As nearly as I could piece together, Clyde had taken a cab to a hotel after leaving the hospital. He’d stayed there until he thought he was strong enough to come home and make it up the stairs. Somewhere along the way, he’d found the dog and decided to bring her along. I couldn’t fault him for it, even though he wasn’t steady enough to take her out for potty breaks. She was a sweet girl, and she needed help. My tenderhearted mother would’ve rescued her in an instant. Perhaps that was the reason Clyde had done it, even though he and the place weren’t equipped for a pet.
Clyde did make sure the dog got her exercise, though. Every morning at roughly four thirty, he prepared coffee in the world’s loudest percolator, turned CNN on at maximum volume, and threw the tennis ball down the hallway over and over and over, so the dog could chase it past my room.
As a result, the dog and I had, in a weird way, bonded. She’d taken to following me downstairs during the day, rather than sitting with Clyde. The second floor was lively with scents and sounds and the occasional scampering mouse. Dog entertainment.
She was waiting for me when I came back from the antique store, still lugging the mostly full book box. My despair must’ve been showing as I once again added it to the library pile in the hallway. The dog rolled a remorseful look my way and ducked her head.
“It’s not your fault.”
She lifted an ear, her eyes soulful, worried, weary, and needy. She wasn’t asking for much—just a place to be and someone to be near, but there was no way Clyde could keep a dog. She was one more complication in a series of issues that already seemed endless. I’d been watching Clyde these past two days. Family arguments aside, some new plan had to be made for him. Sadly, his kids wanted nothing to do with the problem. I’d tried.
Bracing my hands on my hips, I looked past the dog and down the hall, where each dark, varnish-crackled doorway and transom seemed to whisper, What now? What next?
Where do you go from here, Whitney Monroe?
Giving up seemed like the most sensible option. This just wasn’t a one-woman job, and with the exception of the items from the davenport desk, and possibly the desk itself, I hadn’t found much of significant value. Still, I somehow couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I’d missed an important clue—that this place held a secret I should’ve figured out by now.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I whispered to the building, to its ghosts, to my ancestors.
The dog lifted her head, looked down the long hallway as if she saw something there, then barked, the sound ping-ponging off the walls as she scrambled to her feet.
“What … are … ?”
A trash pile rustled at the far end of the building. Goose bumps lifted on my skin. What was that?
Before I could conjure an answer to my own question, the dog sniffed the air, bayed, and launched herself past me at roughly the speed of a nuclear missile. Her wild flight took her to the end of the hall, where she growled, yapped, and feverishly began digging at the floor under a broken wing chair.
I backed a step toward the salon, tried to see what she was after. Her prey sounded larger than the usual house mouse. No telling what it might be … a rat, maybe?
A shudder rocked my shoulders and I backed away another step. Whatever it was, I hoped it escaped, found a hiding spot, and stayed… .
The battle broke loose and headed my way. An enormous rat … no … a squirrel was running for its life, zigzagging like a soldier under fire and finally scampering to safety atop the pile of book boxes. The dog hit the stack at maximum force, almost reaching the squirrel’s height before gravity, inertia, and rotten cardboard came into play. The tower of boxes sagged, teetered, then tumbled over. Yelping, the dog fell backward in what seemed like slow motion, all four feet running in the air. The squirrel, still moving at normal speed, clawed its way over the dog, up the door trim, and into the frame of the transom, running back and forth and beating on the glass like a prisoner in an isolation cell.
Back on her feet, the dog attempted a full-bodied wall climb, slid back down, howled like a hound with its prey up a tree, then tried again. Globs of plaster fell and dust swirled.
“Stop! Hey … no!” I yelled.
Of course, no one was listening. The dog shredded another section of the wall, driving the squirrel up the transom glass, where it slipped, wobbled, then teetered on the ledge, legs flailing.
“I said stop!”
Primal instincts took over—mine. I looked around for something, anything, that would either subdue the dog or fend off the squirrel. Squirrels and I had a history.
An umbrella from the trash heap was the only nearby option. Three panels tore in unison when I opened it, but still, it was better than nothing. I had to call off Clyde’s dog before something gruesome happened.
I forced myself forward. One step … two … three …
Stretching out my hand, I came within inches of grabbing the dog before the squirrel sailed free, hit my umbrella, fell through, and ran down my back while I screamed like a banshee. The dog bypassed me in hot pursuit, and both ran the length of the building, finally disappearing into the storage room up the hall. Bolting after them, I heard barking, growling and hissing, fabric ripping, objects toppling off shelves, glass breaking.
His head tipped almost imperceptibly and his chin dropped. He blinked, blinked again, the serpentine folds over his eyes saying, Call the men in the white coats, the lady upstairs has gone round the bend.
“There’s a squirrel … in here… .” The words came in a breathless whisper.
“A … squirrel?” The golf club slowly descended until it dangled at his side.
“I don’t like squirrels … up close.” Another heebie-jeebie slid over me, bringing with it childhood nightmares left behind by a petting zoo mugging.
Mark squinted at the threadbare umbrella. “I thought I heard someone screaming.”
“It charged at me.”
“The squirrel?” The corners of his mouth tugged, and for a moment he reminded me of his younger shop helper. Joel’s easygoing personality came with a ready laugh and a constant good mood. He was one of the few people in town who was glad I was here … unlike Mark, who typically scowled as I went by or pretended he didn’t notice me at all.
Now his stomach convulsed and a puff of air chugged out. “I thought someone was being attacked up here, or …”
“It’s not funny.” It was, of course. I glanced up at the fan-shaped hole in the umbrella, pictured a deranged Mary Poppins in sloppy jeans and a paint-spattered Bella Tazza sweatshirt with the cuffs cut off. I was out of clean clothes upstairs, and I needed to do the wash, but I’d been avoiding the laundry room. The last load of my mother’s things was still there, neatly folded in a basket, seemingly waiting for her to come home. The strange still life of an ordinary day, of future expectations, was too much to bear.
“Trust me. It’s funny.” Mark’s eyes caught the light and warmed. His grin was the kind that could pull you in if you didn’t watch yourself. Up close that kind of charisma was dangerous. “What was the umbrella for?”