Twillyweed

by Mary Anne Kelly

  “That about clinches it.” Paige smacked a pile of Life magazines.

  “Pretty stupid, to let himself be seen like that,” Jenny Rose said, offering me a Tootsie Roll.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, taking it, unwrapping it, and greeting that particular sugary bliss of gummy resistance. “I wonder what he said his reason for being there was.”

  “Of course he said he had no idea Patsy Mooney even lived in Sea Cliff! Said he was here to meet someone who wanted to sell him a motorcycle cheap. Of course there was no one. And who cares, right?” Jenny Rose gleamed. “Fuckin’ murderer!”

  I wondered why he’d come in the light of day? Unless he hadn’t meant to kill her but had been carried away by anger. And if that was the case, why hadn’t he hightailed off Long Island instead of waiting around in full view for the cops? Unless he thought it made him look less guilty. It just didn’t feel right. My ex-husband always told me, It’s not like they say in the movies, you know, how the perps raise a big stink declaring their innocence. Once you catch ’em, mostly they do as they’re told nice and easy, walk right into their cell and go to sleep. And there was something else about this case that kept nibbling at my craw, like a word on the tip of my tongue I couldn’t quite catch.

  Jenny Rose whispered, “Auntie Claire, we have to talk. It’s about Wendell. He—”

  But just at that moment Glinty stepped between us, startling me once again with the suddenness of his appearance so that I dropped my envelope of hospital papers. The two of them scurried off. Annoyed, because we did need to talk, I knelt down in the grass to pick them up—and I saw across the yard a pair of boating shoes I knew and liked under an antique school desk. I raised my eyes to his. Both of us held on too long then looked, baffled, apart. The last time I’d admired those worn-out moss green boating shoes they’d belonged to a handsome boat mechanic. Now they belonged to a wealthy North Shore heir. Out of my league. But he strolled toward me. “Say!” he said, sucking in his breath. “Look at this. A copper-lined humidor. Handmade, it looks like!” The canopy of young leaves above us shimmered in a sunlit wind.

  Together we bent down, the sun warm on our backs, and peered into the little oven of copper. He was so close I could smell him. Salt. Soap. And the metallic shirk of the box’s lining. I turned slightly and he was watching me, his eyes moving down my throat, close enough to kiss. Evidently he’d forgiven me for incriminating him by taking the key to the police. A response to his nearness pulsed inside me and I bumped my forehead on the ceiling and wrenched myself out. Paige had walked off trustingly. It made me feel like a thief. She was standing in the next yard haggling over a sentimental picture when it was the frame she really wanted. She wobbled back over the grass in her heels toward us, all aglow. “Ten dollars!” she sang, disengaging the picture from the frame and tossing the print aside. “It’s got to be worth fifty!”

  “At least that!” Morgan agreed, admiring the carved, pickled wood, holding it up. They strolled together toward the 99-cent table. He waited tenderly while she scoured each item. “Look, Claire”—she held up a yellowed card of vintage buttons—“something for you!” She chuckled. “Oh, my God. Remember that first night when you came to dinner at Twillyweed? We laughed so hard. Didn’t we, Morgan? A lady from Queens with buttons on her ears and a tablecloth for a coat! It was too much. Lord, we were rolling, weren’t we, Morgan?” Her eyes twinkled with spite.

  Embarrassed, now, Morgan caught my expression and looked away, “Well, we were drunk.”

  “Ah!” I smiled and smacked my head, pretending I’d just remembered something. “Gotta run home and let the dog out. Paige, thanks so much for taking me, okay? See you later!”

  “Hey!” Morgan called after me good-naturedly. “Who said you could have a dog anyway?”

  “I’m the mistress of my universe,” I shot back over my shoulder, “and no man will wither yon me livestock!” Don’t ask me where that came from. It was having all these Scottish men around. When I got far enough away from them, I slowed down, Paige’s words ringing in my ears. I made my way unhappily back to the cottage. And Jenny Rose might have mentioned to me she was having it off with that … that … scallywag! My car was in the drive. I removed Carmela’s jacket and folded it carefully. I was getting a little fed up with taking care of other people’s things. Suddenly I got so mad, I flung the jacket down on the ground and kicked it. Feeling better, I threw it in the trunk. And then it came to me, what it was I’d been trying to remember. The men from Twillyweed had sailed to Virginia for that chandelier. All four of them. Any one of them could have posted a letter supposedly from Annabel.

  In the cottage, Jake greeted me with so much enthusiasm I felt my blood pressure lower. Settling in, we sat together and looked out the window. We admired the fair-weather clouds, and the fleet of slim white sailboats zinging by, all the trappings of privilege. I jumped at the phone ringing in my pocket. “Hello?”

  “Surprise!”

  My heart sank. It was Carmela, my sister.

  “I’m in Lugano,” she trilled. “It’s gorgeous! Can you hear me, really? I wasn’t sure. The mountains are so disruptive!”

  “Clear as a bell!”

  “So I called Mommy to find out the name of that village Daddy’s grandmother comes from, Mairengo? And I went there. Population five hundred and sixty two! Boring as hell. Luckily, I’m not alone. Trurio, my handsome guide … well”—she lowered her voice suggestively—“of course, he’s young but his father is connected, he works for the government in Milan; you’ll meet him because we’re very close and I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

  She prattled on. I could see it all. The patent-leather Italian skulking in the background, a ne’er-do-well son of a sanitation engineer, thinking here was his ticket to America. New York, no less! Little did he know our New York was an old house in a once reputable area where temples and mosques now crackled the neighborhood awake over loudspeakers churning out morning prayers, where pigeons reigned and cop cars lurked while high school kids slunk to the park in little herds of cannabis fumes, tossing crack vials like crumbs here and there to help find their ways out.

  “Mommy told me all about your saga of woe,” Carmela chattered on. “That’s what happens when you jump from one relationship to the next without waiting to get to know each other. Surprises. Nasty surprises. That’s exactly what happens.”

  She was right. Then I realized she was talking about Enoch. I was supposed to be upset about Enoch, not someone else’s fiancé! And what was this saga of woe? No wonder she couldn’t get her stuff published. “You’re right,” I said.

  “I am?” She sounded surprised. “Well, now that you realize that, I hope next time you’ll look before you leap.”

  “All right, all right. I get the message.” I hung up, relieved that she wasn’t in town. Relieved I wouldn’t have to deal with her at all … and then I remembered Jenny Rose. Why on earth had Carmela called me instead of her? I picked up the phone and hit the green button twice, reconnecting the call.

  “Call Jenny Rose,” I said.

  “What?” I could hear her shifting her phone, see the twinkling lights around the lake.

  I started to say something reprimanding and then, thinking better, I said, “Carmela. She’s wonderful. She has hazel eyes just like Daddy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” I could hear her mind ruminating, telling herself all the reasons a knockout like herself should not, definitely not, have a grown daughter around. I could see her as a girl, proud, jealous—as we both were of each other. I knew her so well. I prayed fervently she’d move on to a higher, better level. I waited.

  “Stop praying.” She laughed. “I can feel you.”

  “What? I wasn’t.”

  “Tch! You’re just like Mommy.”

  “Okay, I was, but for the right reason.”

  “We’re just coming to the border. I’ll
call you back.”

  “No! Call Jenny Rose!” But she’d gone.

  I stood there for a moment, close to her regardless how far. And then I realized something; someone could have lured Patsy’s ex-husband to town … but who? I poured the morning’s coffee into a cup with milk and ice and Jake and I went out.

  Mrs. Dellaverna was standing in her yard. I walked over. “Hi,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m tricking the roses.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. You chop off the heads after they bloom and it tricks them into blooming twice.”

  “Ah. I’ll remember that.”

  “What’s the matter? You look depressed. Because Patsy died?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. I can’t seem to figure things out.”

  “Come in my house.”

  “Just for a sec,” I said, following her in. To my surprise, there sat Mr. Piet with his shoes off, his legs crossed and the Times folded open in front of his face. “Mr. Piet! How nice.”

  “Mademoiselle Breslinsky.” He bowed his head.

  We commiserated about Patsy Mooney. Then I said, “I never thanked you for my headlight.”

  “So many things have happened.” He smiled sadly and his eyes crinkled up.

  Mrs. Dellaverna pulled me into her sunporch. Down the sides of an aluminum trellis, hanging almost to the ground, were several incredibly long, skinny green squash.

  “It’s a cucuzza,” she confided with intimacy.

  “Isn’t it too early for squash?”

  “Yes, yes.” She nodded rapidly. “I plant them early, in March already, here in the house. Look how big! Look how bellissima!”

  I frowned suspiciously. “You’re going to enter them in the contest?”

  “No, no, not these. They’ll be too many seeds in these by then. They’ll be too old and tough. No. Outside I started the others. But I’ll make a nice soup. And a little red pepper to make the zest; you have to have the zest!” She motioned me back into the kitchen. There on the countertop was a Tupperware container filled with squash soup and an aluminum foil envelope of red pepper. She nudged them both toward me. “For you.” Then she frowned and lowered her voice, “Death … it’s a part of life, but I don’t like this murder. Maybe you need a protection against a malocchio.”

  “Evil eye? Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking.” She yanked my shirt down over my shoulder. “Hold still!” she barked, giving a quick glance toward Mr. Piet—who was pretending to be absorbed in the financial page—and proceeded to fumble with my bra strap, pinning a tiny red ribbon to it. “So nobody gives you the horns!”

  “Okay. Okay.” I went home and sank into bed, protected now by the Wicked Witch of the Zest. I slept. Then, with something like zeal that I can only imagine came delivered by osmosis from Mrs. Dellaverna, I went to work. I opened the button safe and sat down at the window and polished every little one of the buttons with a spray bottle of hot water and a little vinegar. The summer solstice was drawing near and it took a long time for dark to fall. I welcomed it, the sound of the birds settling in, the boats whistling and groaning into port, and the dark, safe feeling of a cozy dwelling. I lit a candle and some incense and was standing at the stove stirring boiling water into red Jell-O—my mother’s daughter that I am—when someone tap, tap, tapped on the screen.

  “Hullo, hullo, anybody home?”

  Jake let out a bellow and trotted over. My hand went to my hair as I went to the door. It was Morgan. But I’d known it was him, hoped it was him from the moment I’d heard his knock.

  “Brought you a weather stick,” he said, holding it up in its plastic wrapping. “I got it at the yard sale after you left.”

  I laughed happily. “I’ve wanted one since you told me about it!”

  “I know. And I’ve brought you an instruction book on sailing.” He ducked through the doorway and handed me a soft cover book called Basic Keelboat. I flipped through the pages, filled with diagrams of heavings to and soundings in fathoms. “Thanks,” I said, putting it neatly on the end table with other good intentions.

  He had an arm up and held the back of his neck, turning this way and that. “I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished!” He tousled politely and energetically with Jake over the dog’s dirty pink Spalding.

  Trying not to look smug, I asked, “Time for a cup of tea?”

  We stood there for another moment, poised and unsure. I was so happy he was there I didn’t know what to do first. But he remained and I realized he was gaping at my feet. I was wearing Noola’s mukluks. I could have sunk through the floor. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I fell in love with them and couldn’t resist—”

  “Don’t apologize.” He bent down again and gave Jake a good stroke. “She’d have liked that someone else shared her taste. She walked around like an American Indian half the time, with buckskin skirts and shawls made out of hemp! You mentioned there might be tea?”

  “Well, decaf, if you don’t mind, at this hour. Yes. Please. Sit. Jake, go sit down. C’mon. Here. Here’s a biscuit. Give it to him, will you, Morgan? He won’t settle until he’s got something to treasure. Make him sit first.”

  With Jake contented at Morgan’s feet—he couldn’t get closer if he was wrapped around him—I took out my secret stash of blackberry tea and the prettiest teapot, black-tea brown with yellow daffodils painted on it, and fussed about him as though he were the man of the house come home from a long day’s journey. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to. The pot in one hand with a dishtowel over my hand, I lowered myself across from him. For a moment there was silence. It would be the first time he’d sat here since Noola died.

  “Claire … What you’ve done with this place! I don’t know what lucky star I walked beneath when you stomped onto me sloop …” Then he said, shaking his head, “I love it so much that you’ve taken it to your heart. That you seem to respect my mother’s memory. Christ, I get so tired of everyone tiptoeing around me so I won’t remember my mother’s dead. But you see, I’m living her death. I’m in a place of grief. There’s no one I’d rather talk about or think about. She’s all around me anyway.” His voice broke. “I’ll not be over it for quite some time—nor do I want to be.”

  “Well, you’re entitled to your grief. Are you hungry?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, as though he’d just remembered food. He touched the teapot and eased his handsome finger gently down the belly of it. “This is the pot she liked the best.” A thrill went up me. He said, “Sitting here at this window with you …” He shook his head. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

  Our eyes met. There it was. That intoxicating fizz of significance. But because it was so new, I was unsure what he meant and feared almost physically to make a mistake and chase him off with my eagerness. I took a sip of tea to avoid saying anything. It was so hot I saw oblivion and had a bad moment taking it down, feeling the wall of pain between my lungs as it scorched my insides. But I’d promised him food. I busied myself, hauling from the refrigerator everything I had worth giving. I had a cheese that was as close to heaven as food can be. Carefully, I peeled away the cellophane and lowered it reverently onto a board, placing beside it a curved silver fish knife. Normally I’ll cut it in half and stash the better part for myself when I was alone. Not this night. It merited the center of the table and there I placed it.

  “Uh-oh,” he lamented appreciatively, taking in the exquisite, firm, grayish crust and just-before-loose insides, “what is it?”

  “Brillat-Savarin, it’s called. It’s named for a famous chef.” I sliced some vine tomatoes, sprinkled them with sea salt and black pepper and poured balsamic from Modena and Sicilian extravirgin all over them, eying Jake fiercely as I did. Jake is mad for cheese and he’s liable to whine until he gets some.

  “I am starving,” Morgan realized, resting his long
fingers over his knees and taking it all in appreciatively. “I love food, really.”

  “Me too,” I said, laying out his mother’s creamy napkins and two pretty etched glasses. I’d bought a nice 2010 Côtes du Rhône for a special occasion and hauled it out now. “Water or wine?” I held up the bottles.

  “Both,” we said together and laughed.

  “What’s your very favorite food?” I risked, hoping he wouldn’t find the question childish.

  He thought a moment. “The core of the Boston lettuce, when you just cut it open. I love that,” he said while I found an opener in the drawer and joined him. I was waiting for him to ask me what mine was but his head drooped down and he held his hands behind his hips. “I’m going to tell you something. Something I’ve never told a living soul.”

  His words frightened me and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what was to come.

  He began, “I don’t know how much you know about my past …”

  “A little. I know a little because Teddy mentioned—”

  “Years ago,” he interrupted, “at just this time of year, almost to the day it was, right before the race—”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I stopped him, hoping to spare him. “Your mother ran over Daniel in the water. Mrs. Dellaverna told me. And that’s why he’s … that way.”

  He looked at me wearily then down at Jake, tickling behind his ear. “Yes, but you see, it wasn’t my mother drove over that lad, Daniel, that beautiful young lad.” Looking back up, he held my eyes. “’Twas me.”

  The way he said it. With such sadness in that picturesque way. It broke my heart. “Oh,” was all I could say. Then, “I’m so sorry.”

  He sucked a deep breath in and kept looking at me. I’ll never forget that look. He was waiting for me to judge him.

  “You were just a boy yourself …”

  “Ah, but you see, I knew better.”

  “… And your mother took the blame. I would have done the same for my son.”