You Let Me In

by Camilla Bruce

  No, it wouldn’t have worked.

  From the moment he chose to wear Mara’s colors, Ferdinand was lost. There was no coming back from what he did—no coming back from what he’d witnessed. It’s hard, being the knight of a harsh queen.

  As it was, however, it didn’t take Mother long to find her husband in her son’s garden. According to the police and the newspapers, Mother woke up, found him gone, brewed some coffee, and threw on a shawl over her morning robe. Then she grabbed two cups and walked over to Ferdinand’s to ask him if he had seen his father. At that time, I think, she still thought Father was out hunting pigeons, having seen the rifle missing from its rack. She took the shortcut through the gardens, not being properly dressed and all, planning to slip inside through the back door and wake her son with some fresh morning brew … On her way there, her sharp eyes caught sight of something unusual: a pile of dirt that shouldn’t be there; a freshly dug hole on the lawn. Wondering what that nonsense was about—the garden, she thought, was perfectly fine—she wandered over, balancing the cups, and looked down at that grisly scenario. Her husband was very much found, punctured and maimed by wooden spikes, and if he’d ever had a heart, it certainly wasn’t there anymore.

  Mother screamed, dropped the coffee, and ran to Ferdinand’s patio doors, drumming with her fists on the glass, calling to Ferdinand to let her in. She had “just found your father dead in the garden!” She didn’t call it murder yet, mind you, didn’t suspect even that her son was involved, though her husband was dead on his lawn. She did realize that he was dead, so there was never any question of medics or an ambulance. I guess that was due to the hole in his chest. You can’t get much deader than that.

  When Ferdinand failed to respond, she didn’t go in through the back door as she had planned, she went back to her own house and called the police. I don’t know what she said to them, only that it was logged as an accident at first. Mr. Thorn had had an accident. When they arrived at the scene, though, it was quickly changed to murder. Not only was the bear pit a lethal trap in itself, but the weapon that had speared his heart was missing from the scene.

  They knocked on Ferdinand’s door several times during this first round of investigations, where the body was removed and the scene secured. He quickly became a person of great interest, and though Mother was both shaking and sobbing at the time, she readily agreed to let them inside, using Ferdinand’s spare key.

  They found him then, of course.

  I have asked Mara many times what really happened that night; why he never filled that pit back up. She says she doesn’t know, says she never went back—but I know that she is lying. I know that not only because the bloody spear was found beneath his hanging body, but because of the ring of mushrooms that had suddenly sprouted forth on his living room floor. They never told you about that, did they? About that sudden infestation of fungi in his house, those pearly white mushrooms that appeared overnight. Not there the day before, said the help. I only know because I went to Ferdinand’s sad funeral, and overheard the police officers talking to each other. It didn’t make sense to them—but it certainly did to me.

  After they found Ferdinand, it was a clear-cut case to the police. Especially since the spear was inscribed with nasty quotes from Dr. Martin’s book. Ferdinand had taken it to heart, they said, that book had “ruined his life” and become his truth, and so he killed our father with it.

  Then he killed himself.

  XXIX

  When the police finally arrived at the lilac house, noon had long since come and gone. I was sitting on my porch doing crossword puzzles, but really just watching the road. The day was chilly and I was wrapped in a knitted blanket, a cloud of steam rose from the tea before me. I’d felt sick to the core all day, felt it in my bones that something was doomed to turn out bad. I didn’t know yet that he’d never filled in that hole with dirt. Neither did I know about Ferdinand’s fate. As far as I was concerned, they might only think my father missing.

  I soon learned it was more serious than that.

  The police officer who was driving the vehicle was a big red-bearded man that I remembered from my trial. He had been the first one on the scene after they discovered what they thought was Tommy Tipp. He’d been just a rookie then, slimmer and fitter, hair more lustrous and thick. His name was Officer Parks. The other police officer was a woman, fairly young and dark-skinned; she said her name was Amira. I think she was the one who was supposed to comfort me if I broke into pieces at the news.

  They stood before the porch where I sat; Parks fiddled with his belt as cops do.

  “Are you Cassandra Tipp?” asked Amira.

  “She is,” Parks grunted beside her.

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you,” said Amira. “Can we come inside or—come sit down there with you?”

  I nodded, didn’t like where this was going. “What is it?” My voice was high-pitched as I battled jolts of fear. “What has happened?”

  The two officers took their time approaching me, then sinking down in my wicker chairs.

  “Mrs. Tipp,” Amira said. “I am sorry to inform you that your father and your brother passed away last night.”

  “What?” I burst out—hadn’t seen that coming. Not the part about Ferdinand, anyway. “Why? What happened?”

  “We are not sure yet.” Amira looked weary. “Your father was found in your brother’s garden, and his death was … quite violent. Unfortunately, everything points to your brother being involved in his death, including his subsequent suicide.”

  “Suicide, huh?” I murmured, thinking thoughts better left unspoken.

  “You mother doesn’t think so.” Parks’s dark eyes stared unblinkingly across the table. He remembered me well, then. Remembered Tommy Tipp. “She thinks you may have had a hand in this.” He ignored Amira’s warning gaze. “That you’re somehow responsible for them both.”

  “Me? Why? I barely spoke to any of them for the last thirty years or so.”

  “So you weren’t aware of any disagreement between them?” Amira’s cheeks were flushed, from shame on Parks’s behalf, I reckoned.

  “No, I’m not on speaking terms with any of them. You can ask anyone—I’m surprised Mother even remembers my name.”

  “Your mother is quite determined”—Parks again—“that your brother would have had help. Your father died violently, as we said, and certain skills were involved that your mother is very certain that your brother didn’t possess. Like woodcarving and weaponry.”

  “He did fence for a while,” I tried to be helpful. “But as I said, I didn’t know him well, so I don’t know who could have helped him.”

  “You write books about a lot of different things, though, don’t you? You have to know a lot of things to do that,” Parks plowed on. Amira’s cheeks stayed flushed.

  “I certainly write very little about woodcarving and weaponry. I write mostly about beaches and fruity drinks.”

  “You are no stranger to human anatomy, though.”

  “Well, my stories sometimes get heated, but as you well know, Officer Parks, I have been a widow for quite some time.”

  “You know very well what I mean.” The beard bobbed on his chest while he spoke.

  “Tell me how my brother died.” I was eager to get them back on track.

  “He hanged himself from the roof beam,” grunted Parks.

  Amira mumbled, “So sorry … so sorry…”

  “The murder weapon was found in there with him,” said Parks. “It has scribbles all over it, quotes from that book about fairies.”

  “Huh?”

  “That book about fairies, the one he wrote, the doctor who treated you.”

  “Dr. Martin?”

  “That’s the one, and your mother swears the scribbles on the spear are in your hand.”

  “It is messy, though,” added Amira, “hard to tell with all the … matter.”

  “I’m sure my mother has quite forgotten what my loops and curlicues looks like b
y now.”

  “We are so sorry to bring such bad news,” Amira burst out, “and so sorry we have to ask all these questions.”

  “As I said, we weren’t close.”

  “Still…”

  “Ours wasn’t a happy home.” I was still trying to throw them off the scent—using the truth, no less. “When we grew up there was much discord. You can read all about it in ‘the book about fairies.’”

  “Thank you,” said Amira, “we’ll do that.”

  Parks only grunted in reply.

  * * *

  “Why the heart?” I asked Mara when she finally reappeared, sitting in my kitchen as if nothing had happened, flipping through a wildlife magazine.

  “It is a very effective way of killing.”

  “Seems like a lot of work, though, digging that pit, whittling those stakes…”

  “He was a big man and I didn’t want to take any chances. Down there he was pretty much stuck—you don’t walk away from a position like that. It works perfectly fine with real bears as well.”

  “And what about Ferdinand?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, he died, didn’t he?”

  “It appears so.”

  “He killed himself, Mara, and that isn’t good.”

  “He should have filled in the pit first.”

  “Yes, he should have—why didn’t he?” I slumped down in the chair opposite her, gently took the magazine from her hands so she was forced to look at me. On the glossy pages, stags were fighting, locking antlers in a tangle of bones.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “He got frightened maybe. I think seeing it made him feel bad.”

  “Well, yes, it would, wouldn’t it? A grown man spiked and speared—”

  “I never forced him to do anything.”

  “But you went back there, didn’t you? You were there when Ferdinand died.”

  “I was not.”

  “But the spear, Mara, and the mushrooms?”

  “I left the spear behind when I left. As for the fairy ring, you should ask your lover.”

  “Pepper-Man?”

  “The very one.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Well, if I didn’t do it, who else has such high stakes in this they went to your brother and strung him up … left footprints on the floor…”

  “Oh no,” I said. “You can’t make me blame Pepper-Man for this. You are only mad that he hit you.”

  “Well, think about it, Mother. It was the best way to protect you, wasn’t it, to firmly plant the guilt with him—with Ferdinand … And who is more eager to protect you in the whole wide world than the very creature that feeds from you?”

  “You are cunning, my daughter, but I won’t play along. Not this time. Pepper-Man knew I didn’t want Ferdinand harmed—”

  “When did he ever care about what you want? He is self-serving in every way, you have said so yourself, many times. If Pepper-Man thought it was better if he died, your feelings really didn’t matter.”

  “He wouldn’t do that to me—”

  “Yes, he would.”

  “He is your father—”

  “No, he’s not. I don’t have a father. Not anymore.” A tiny smile played on her lips. I looked at her for a while then, the unruly hair, the tattered feathers. My daughter—dark sister—born of pain.

  “You should have filled in that hole,” I said weakly.

  “What difference does it make now? Ferdinand is good and dead.”

  “Do you remember the color of his tie when he died?”

  “Blue, I think—with little birds on it.” She always had exceptional sight.

  “Doves?” I asked, heart fluttering.

  “Swallows, I think.” So much for poetry, for symbols and signs.

  “What was the last thing he said to you?”

  “He wasn’t speaking, he was retching.”

  “He wouldn’t have brought that spear back inside.”

  “No, he wouldn’t, but Pepper-Man would, if he was to place the blame.”

  I sat back, clasped my hands in my lap. I felt thoroughly and utterly defeated. “Are you feeling better now, Mara? Do you feel like your revenge has made a difference in your life? Did it set you free as you hoped?”

  She shrugged again. “I never expected it to make much difference. It was just something that needed to be done.”

  “Your ‘purpose in life,’ isn’t that what you called it? So what now, when the deed is done?”

  “Now”—she leaned back in the chair, stretched out her legs—“I keep going.”

  * * *

  I remember discussing Mara with Dr. Martin once. It was just after he released the book—was just a conversation, not a session.

  “Do you think it was a coincidence that Mara was born after your trip to the clinic?” he asked me.

  “Not at all. She was born then because else she would die.”

  “Daughter, huh? Shadow self—does that term mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s like an evil twin that lives inside your mind; someone you don’t want to relate to. It’s a part of you, even if you don’t want it to be. Sometimes it’s small, barely there at all, other times it’s strong and overpowering. It’s where we put all our unwanted feelings and emotions; those destructive impulses we don’t want to act on.”

  “She does that, though. She acts on her impulses all the time.”

  “Because you can’t.”

  “Because it’s how she is.”

  I wonder what he would have made of all this, Dr. Martin. What questions he would have asked me had he known about the bear pit, the spear with his words on it, and the spinning body of a dove. I still pretend to hear him sometimes, hear him in my head:

  “Isn’t it possible, Cassie, that you talked to your brother about what happened in your shared childhood home, and that the two of you together came up with this plan, just like your mother and sister think?”

  “No,” I would have replied. “I never was one for vengeance.”

  “Yet vengeance is the legacy you passed on to Mara, isn’t it?”

  “That was just bad luck,” I would say. “I never wanted Mara to have to deal with it at all.”

  “But didn’t you, somewhere deep inside? Isn’t it a very human quality to seek vengeance—or justice, as we call it these days? Isn’t it fair to say that the need for restoration of ego and soul after a betrayal is so deeply embedded in us that the need will push forth, no matter how deep we bury it?”

  “It depends on the person, I guess,” I would say then.

  “Exactly … And you, Cassie, what kind of person are you? Are you the kind who can obliterate the need to strike back if you’re hit, or will you just find other ways to do it?”

  “Like having a vengeful daughter?”

  “Just that. A daughter with a ‘warrior soul.’”

  “I never wanted this,” I would say again.

  “No,” he would say then. “But she did.”

  XXX

  I suppose you think me mild for not coming down on your cousin harder, but when you’re dealing with faeries there is one thing you must understand: life goes on forever, and they are all stuck in the mound. They don’t bear grudges for what happened last year, nor a hundred years ago. To me, that has always been one of the most appealing things about them, the way time flows and erases all that was—the only thing that matters is the here and now.

  I used to find solace in that, it was my touching stone for years. My past didn’t define me when I lived among the faeries; nothing that happened to me tainted me forever. Mara wasn’t like that, though—was always looking back. I was hoping that the bear hunt would release her from all that; that she would be free now, and stop moving against the tide. It never even entered my mind to let our disagreement continue. What good would that do, arguing with my daughter? It wouldn’t solve a thing, now that it was done. Ferdinand and Father were dead, and our contin
ued disagreement wouldn’t change that. The police would never be looking for clues among the roots and the stones, deep within the mound.

  “She blames you,” I told Pepper-Man when Mara had left. “She said it was you who strung up my brother and planted that spear by his feet.”

  “Of course she would say that. She is angry because I hit her.”

  “Did you, though? Did you kill my brother?”

  He didn’t answer me outright. “I will always protect you and Mara, even when you do not want me to.”

  “He was going to fill in that hole.”

  “And plant tulips—yes, I know. But buried bones always whisper, Cassandra. Before he knew it, he would have had scores of flowers bleeding in his lap, their petals shaped like bears and hearts. It would spread like a toxin through the earth, taint everything it touched with rage and violence. Better he is buried properly. Better it is not a secret.”

  “But Ferdinand—”

  “Is at peace now, and that was what you wished for, was it not?”

  I couldn’t really argue with that. “They still blame me, though, Mother and Olivia.”

  “Of course they do. They would not be who they are if they did not.”

  “She is my daughter, though, so I guess they have a point. If I hadn’t taken Mara to the mound, none of this would have happened.”

  “But Cassandra, what difference does it make? Is the world a poorer place for your father not being in it?”

  “But Ferdinand—”

  “Was not fit for life.”

  “He might have been, though, if—”

  “It is done,” Pepper-Man spoke into my ear. “It is over now, my Cassandra. It is done.”

  And it was.

  * * *

  Father’s funeral was a beautiful disaster, as disasters go. I didn’t expect it to be any different, still I felt I had to go, to see him buried if nothing else.

  The church was filled with flowers—white: roses, carnations, lilies. The casket was closed, as it ought to be, he wasn’t a pretty sight, even when alive. His coffin was shiny and black amid the dull white, rested on a sheet of tulle. Mother’s eyes were hidden behind a veil, it drooped from her pillbox hat like a black wave. Her hair was tied back with a black velvet bow; less curly now, less yellow, more a faded gray. Her suit was very chic, though; she still had a very slim figure. She sat between you, Penelope, and your mother. The latter was sporting a black dress and satin gloves, wore thin, high heels that made her seem tall. I remember you because you didn’t wear black, but navy blue. Maybe your mother hadn’t thought to buy you funeral clothes. The pearls you wore were old, and so was the ivory ring on your finger. I remember both well from my mother’s box of gems. Passed on to you, then, I guess you have them still. She wanted to make sure, I think, that none of her finery ever came to me. Janus, I don’t remember you at all. Maybe you were sick that day—or maybe I just didn’t care to look.