The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster

by Scott Wilbanks

  It was not what she was looking for, but a dozen yards away, listing wearily to the side, stood another pole, marking where a barely recognizable path joined the road. On top was a solitary piece of wood three feet across by eight inches wide. The plank was bone dry and looked like it would splinter in her hands. She could just make out the faded words Crow Flies.

  Annie looked up the path, beyond a mailbox so rusty it was riddled with holes, and her breath caught at the first glimpse of her destination. Tired and missing several pieces of timber, it was a dilapidated shadow of its former self. Hearing a rustling noise and feeling a suggestive turbulence of air, Annie watched a pair of crows settle on the signpost a few feet away, bold as brass. She waved before walking up the path to the cabin.

  The front door was askew, having broken away from a rusty hinge, and the overhang above the small porch had a large hole with splintered edges. Annie grabbed the doorknob and jumped back as the door clattered to the ground. Dust plumed upward, flaring in the sunlight that sprayed into the room from behind her.

  She stepped through the door, coughing.

  This is not a home; it’s a mausoleum, she thought. It was bleak and colorless—a husk—and no echo remained of its former life. All the joy and woe of Elsbeth, Tom, and Beth Anne had dried up over the years and turned to dust.

  Annie tried to picture the cabin as it might have been in another day and age. She circled the room once, then placed her palm on a wall, hoping to tease out a few memories. She closed her eyes, emptying her head. At first, there was nothing. Slowly, though, the cabin started to shake off its lassitude, sharing sounds from the four chapters of Elsbeth’s life.

  It began with the tinkling laughter of a little girl, bacon sizzling on a skillet, and voices exchanging love and contentment in wordless riffs that faded eventually to silence. Out of the hush, a dog barked in the distance, and whispered words—“Help him, Mommy”—lifted from the floorboards to be replaced by the somber tones of a eulogy: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  Hurtful words battled prideful ones after that, and the finality of footsteps running out the door echoed through the cabin. Then, before the ghostly music could play itself out, it performed an uncanny finale. The sound was distinct and unmistakable. It was the creaking of a rocker as it swayed slowly back and forth in time to the rasping wheeze of a turned page—the sound of Elsbeth’s loneliness.

  It was almost more than Annie could bear, that sound, knowing there was nothing she could do to ease it. Love could be a painful thing, she realized, especially when family is suffering. And Elsbeth had spent far too many years as a member of the lost and lonely club. Annie might not be their patron saint, but she was certainly a sucker for them, having experienced firsthand how cruel people could be to misfits—the square pegs in a world of round holes.

  She took her palm off the wall and opened her eyes, looking for the sound’s source. And there it was, sitting under the windowsill, covered in cobwebs and dust. She wandered to it and sat down. Presently, she began to rock while considering the life of a schoolmarm in a cabin resting under the endless Kansas sky.

  The chair’s shadow had marched across several floorboards before Annie gathered herself. She grabbed her hat and stepped out the back door. Just off the porch grew four fiery sunflowers. She decided that the number was fitting—one for her grandfather, grandmother, mother, and herself. Searching the pack for her Swiss Army knife, Annie reached down and cut three stalks off near the ground. With the sunflowers in hand, she walked across the yard to pause at a ramshackle well. Resting the sunflowers on the ledge, Annie leaned over to stare into the void. “Hellooooo…” she called.

  “Loooo…looo…loo…look,” billowed up from the cheerless hole.

  “Look where?” she asked. Dropping a pebble down the well, she turned, holding her hand over her eyes to cut out the glare of the sun and saw a wheat-covered rise in the distance. A gnarled old oak stood sentry on its crest.

  Annie climbed the hill and looked about as a gust of hot wind threatened to make off with her hat. Placing her hand atop her head, she pirouetted slowly, like a porcelain ballerina on a jewelry box, memorizing the sparseness of her grandmother’s world. She scanned the horizon until the oak niggled at the periphery of her vision and she finished her climb.

  She leaned against its trunk and saw what she had come across half the country to find—two small, wooden grave markers with wording burned onto their surfaces. The first read “Thomas Grundy, 1829–1867.” Catching her breath, Annie looked to the second. It read “Elsbeth Grundy, 1832–1927.” That last number held the answer she sought, the source of her temptation. Content, Annie released her breath. Fodder for a fool. But she decided that the world could do with a little more foolishness. She laid a sunflower next to each grave and sat down in the ample shade of the tree to look out over the cabin before digging pen and paper from her backpack.

  Dear Nana:

  I like that word—Nana. Let me know if it suits.

  I’m writing this letter from Pawnee County, Kansas, while sitting under an old oak tree that is kind enough to offer me some shade. Just to my right is your grave, and I’m looking back on a forlorn little cabin. Clearly it misses your company.

  There were sunflowers growing off your back porch. I hope you don’t mind, but I gathered a few and laid one next to your marker. It didn’t seem right that I should visit you for the first time without a gift, and a sunflower seemed to me to be the perfect reflection of the occasion.

  I have so many questions for you, Nana. I hardly know where to begin. You told me once that honeysuckle was my mom’s favorite flower. What about yours?

  Mine is the periwinkle.

  Grandfather’s marker is here as well. And even though hers is not, I’ve laid a sunflower between your two markers for my mama. For Beth Anne. For Florence.

  Your old rocking chair is still in the cabin. I sat in it briefly, imagining you rocking back and forth while reading my first correspondence. I laughed at the memory. You were so insulted, and we got off to such a questionable start.

  You’ll be happy to know that the well is still out back, at least a good part of it, and I gladly confirmed that there were no remains of drowned kittens, only a few tumbleweeds.

  Please don’t be cross with me for coming here. I’m struggling so badly with the space between us and did what I could to spend a moment in your company.

  So, I will sit here and share this beautiful day with you for a while before heading home to drop my letter in the same letter box sitting at the bottom of the rise.

  I didn’t intend to travel across half the country to write so little, but I suddenly find myself at a loss for words. Only three remain.

  I love you.

  Annabelle Annie put the pen down and looked back at the cabin. A shadow drifted over her shoulder as if pushed along by the breeze. Without looking up, she said, “How did you know where to find me?”

  Christian sighed, sliding down to sit beside her. He leaned over to whisper into her ear. “Where else would you go?”

  Leaning her head against his shoulder, Annie spied a pair of crows drifting on the air currents above the barn. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Christian didn’t need to respond. He watched the crows spiral up and away.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FOUR

  Wrapping Up Loose Ends

  Home,” breathed Annie as they pulled into the drive. It was the first word to come out of her mouth throughout the entire ride back from the airport. Christian could feel her mood sinking lower and lower as they got closer to home. It was as if whatever contentment she’d attained from the trip had been siphoned off and sequestered within that lonely cabin they’d left behind.

  He was afraid that Annie might have been infected by the cabin’s loneliness, destined to waste away like some Dickensian character over time. That’s good, he thought as he turned off the ignition. Maybe I should write it down before I forget. He popped the trunk
and glanced through the jagged edges of light cutting through the rear window at Annie, feeling guilty that he’d used her misery for some less- than- literary inspiration. She hadn’t moved from the passenger seat, and the refraction left her looking broken— only half there.

  He started to organize the luggage under his arms and in both hands while Annie stared at the front of her house. Through the confused light of the pane he saw her shake her head and step out of the car. She followed him up the stairs to the front door, where he waited for her to pull out her keys, but she appeared to be in another world. Lowering the luggage, he fished his set from a back pocket and unlocked the door. Reorganizing the suitcases, he nudged the door open with his foot and carried the luggage into the entryway.

  Arranging the bags next to the stairwell, Christian looked back at her. She was hovering in the doorway uncertainly and seemed terribly, terribly lost. “I’m going to run you a bath,” he said.

  Annie looked at Christian, and the corners of her mouth lifted with a hint of humor in them. Her smile broadened as she placed her palm on his cheek. “That sounds divine. I’m just going to drop this letter in the mailbox for Elsbeth, and I’ll be right up.”

  She moved through the entry to the living room, letting her thoughts drift as she ran her fingertips along the back of the sofa. She wandered lazily in the direction of the kitchen, listening with half an ear as a pair of warm, contentious voices drifted toward her.

  “You bet all your chits on a pair of sevens?”

  “I was bluffing.”

  “You’re letting me win, you ingrate.”

  A belly laugh rolled across the room as Annie stepped into the

  kitchen while tapping the envelope lightly over her mouth. She glanced at Edmond, sitting at the breakfast nook, and waved.

  He stood up abruptly, causing the bench to scrape loudly across the floor.

  She continued on to the door and was about to turn the knob when it finally hit her that he wasn’t alone. She turned. “Where on earth are my manners?” she said.

  A mousy little woman sat at the table with several playing cards fanned out in her hand. Gin rummy or maybe crazy eights, Annie thought. The woman was staring at her in obvious fascination. Annie altered her course, heading for the breakfast nook to make the woman’s acquaintance, and amid the variety of thoughts flickering in her mind, there came quite clearly the image contained in a faded photograph. Annie’s gait slowed as she looked more closely at the guest—muslin work skirt, cotton blouse, wooden buttons—and she froze, letting the letter slip from her fingers before raising her hand to cover her mouth.

  She gasped, and the moment slipped from the stream of time. “I think I know you,” she whispered, breaking the spell. “From a letter or two, perhaps? And from a photograph.”

  The slight figure nodded uncertainly.

  “Elsbeth?” Annie stifled a sob. “Nana?”

  The little woman placed her hand of cards down, braced herself against the table, and, with a little assistance from Edmond, slowly righted herself. She stood still as a board. Her features didn’t shift as she returned Annie’s gaze, though unshed tears from a hard life—tears that had been years in the making—gathered on her lower lids before spilling onto her cheeks. She walked stiffly toward Annie. Stopping in front of her, El reached out a mottled hand to touch Annie’s cheek and said, “You have her eyes, you know… Beth Anne’s.” She caressed an auburn strand. “And her hair.”

  Ever so slowly, Elsbeth mustered her courage and gathered Annie in her arms. She held her close, and Annie began to cry. “There, there, my baby girl. My little Annie,” she crooned while rubbing her back.

  Annie stepped back, wiping a tear from her face with the back of her hand. “How?” she asked.

  That one word sufficed. Elsbeth looked over her shoulder to Edmond as Christian secreted himself in the kitchen to stand against the back wall.

  Seeing all eyes on him, Edmond straightened the bench and placed the cards he’d picked up from the floor onto the table. Uncertain where to begin, he turned over a card. It was the joker. “I found a book at the library where I work,” he said, rubbing his hand over the back of his arm. “A treatise on Native American spirit journeys and shamans in the Cherokee tribe called ‘chosen ones’ or ‘keys.’”

  Edmond looked anxiously at Christian, who encouraged him with a lift of his chin. “This won’t make much sense,” he said. “But I fell asleep while I read it and dreamed that I was walking through a kitchen.” He paused, looking almost apologetic. “This kitchen.” Allowing Annie a moment to recover, he nodded toward the back door.

  “Outside was”—he shook his head— “a strange world, all black and white, and I saw this guy in a breechcloth who spoke a phrase to me in a Native American tongue that I later translated as ‘You are the key.’ Next thing I knew, I was wandering through a rose garden, across a field, and around a cabin. There was a mailbox with the name Grundy written on it. Then I woke up and found myself back in the library.” Edmond’s face turned crimson. “I took the book.”

  He picked up a leather-bound volume that was sitting on the breakfast table. “I thought the man was telling me that I was a ‘chosen one’ as described in this.”

  Annie struggled to comprehend what Edmond was sharing, but failed. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Christian interrupted her. “Your dad wrote in his diary that the solution to the bloodline problem was within his grasp all along, remember?”When Annie nodded, he shrugged. “He meant it literally.”

  “What do you mean…literally?”

  Christian pushed away from the wall. “Edmond’s translation was wrong,” he said. “The shaman hadn’t said, ‘You are the key.’ He’d pointed to the book in Edmond’s hand and said,‘You have the key.’” Christian took the book from Edmond’s hand. “It’s the book, Annie. The diary mentioned that your father made the door…and its codex. He’d made two books. We forgot about that. This”—he held up the book—“is the codex. The magic behind the magic of the door. As long as the codex exists, the door will allow you to travel through time.” He opened the book and flipped through a few pages. “It also happens to short-circuit the bloodline anomaly for some reason.”

  Annie looked at her grandmother. “Then you just—”

  “Yeah,” Edmond said, completing her train of thought. “It was that simple. I went to the cabin and gave Elsbeth the book. She tucked it under her arm and walked right through the door into your kitchen.” He grinned at Elsbeth, looking more like himself as he said, “Well…okay, she didn’t just waltz in, but she did put on quite a show.”

  “Edmond,” Elsbeth said in warning.

  “Well, you poked it with your cane!”

  Elsbeth grumbled. “The entire episode was undignified.”

  “For who? You or the door?”

  “It’s ‘for whom,’ you literary lion.”

  Annie and Christian were mesmerized by the natural exchange and obvious affection between the two, heckling one another as only people of long acquaintance knew how.

  When they’d finished trading one-liners, Christian turned to Annie. “There’s something else,” he said. “The book is the something ‘more’ that Abbott talks about in the diary. What else it is, I don’t know. Maybe it’s like a hard drive. Or a memory chip. But it’s powerful enough that your father felt the need to hide it the only place he felt it would be safe.”

  As his meaning became clear, Annie gasped. “In the future. In a library.”

  Christian smiled. “Exactly.”

  Dumbstruck, she turned to Edmond. “How did you find it? The book, I mean?”

  “Albert Einstein said coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” Christian stopped flipping through the pages of the codex, blushing when he realized that everyone was staring, waiting for him to continue. “Sorry, don’t know why I said that.”

  Edmond wasn’t so sure, having learned from experience that some of Christian’s greatest wi
sdom was downplayed as impulse. “I was chasing down a coworker to ask if he would trade shifts,” he said. “Followed him to the end of a bookshelf but lost him. I found the book where he was standing.”

  “A coworker?”

  Annie’s question was meant to be rhetorical, an indication of her disappointment, but Edmond surprised her. “Maybe not,” he said. “Did you know that the diary entry where your father said he had to hide the codex was dated May 30, 1894?” When Annie nodded her assent, he added warily, “Is it a coincidence then that I found the book on a May 30 also?”

  “You’re going to catch a fly with that,” Christian said, pointing to Annie’s gaping mouth.

  She shut it, took the book from Christian’s hand, and stared at the cover. It was titled Hidden Doors: Hidden Magic. “Are you trying to say that”—Annie looked up—“you saw my father?”

  Elsbeth led Annie to the breakfast table as Christian fetched a glass of water. Moving over to make room for Edmond, Annie picked a playing card off the floor, looking self-conscious. She also retrieved the envelope while she was down there and handed it to her grandmother. “I visited your cabin,” she said.

  “Edmond told me. I’m not sure it was wise,” Elsbeth said as she opened it.

  Annie tallied up the chits on the table while her nana read the letter, smiling at the ample pot—Edmond’s bluff cost him dearly. The doorbell rang, and she looked from the front of the house to Christian.

  “I’ll get it,” he said.

  There was a bit of a commotion coming from the front, and Christian returned to the kitchen, looking a bit baffled. “Annie, y-you have a…visitor,” he said.

  She looked up with a start. Something had cracked Christian’s composure. “I’m not expecting anyone,” she said. Sighing at the unwelcome intrusion, she headed to the front door after Elsbeth gave her a smile and waved her on.