Watermark

by Christy Ann Conlin

  Ondine knew most of these women were related to her but did not mention she had heard about this from her grandmother. That part was personal. She didn’t want the old lady to know anything personal about her. How she wasn’t actually doing a dissertation — it was already completed. She had graduated. It was the bedtime stories her grandmother had told her as a child, and then her final ramblings, which had led Ondine back to this godforsaken place on the dusty dirt road.

  The old woman shrugged, like none of this was news to her, like she had been expecting Ondine’s visit for a long time. She immediately began talking. “Ondine was my sister’s middle name, my sister Rose Ondine. It’s so old-fashioned, such a pretty name. An old family name.”

  She’d gone there right away, Ondine noticed. Her sister. Before Ondine could make too much of it, the old woman raised her hand and pointed out toward the ocean, which Ondine could barely see through the trees.

  “We don’t have much time on account of the tides. The tide’s coming in, you see. The weather might turn. I expect you’ll appreciate that like we all do.”

  It was so humid Ondine’s cotton sundress was soaked in sweat even though she was sitting still. “Yes, though a cool breeze would be nice.”

  The old woman handed Ondine her wooden folding fan. It was painted black, with iridescent abalone shell inlaid in the handle and along the slats. It was a relief to sit and listen. That was just as well, since the old lady did not seem the sort who would take kindly to interruptions or questions. “This belonged to my sister, and to my mother before her. It’s just like us women, it’s far tougher than it looks, so don’t be shy, give it a good flutter. Yes, that’s right. Isn’t it a joyous thing when the air has some movement? Now, young Ondine, let me tell you I don’t know exactly where my sister went, although I’ve always had my ideas. It’s time I finally spoke to this. We come from a family of preachers and they say the gift of oration runs in our blood. But I never wanted to be no preacher. That comes from my daddy’s side. Other things run in our blood from my mother’s side, or at least, so they say. But if I’m called to I will tell our story. I’m near the end of my time now. The signs have come.”

  The old lady kept looking at her, so Ondine nodded as though she understood. But she didn’t. She looked out from the verandah — at the front of the house, near the small pond with the dried-up fountain, there was a flower garden covered in brown and red seaweed with a few small white roses poking through.

  “There’s been many over the years who’ve vanished or come to unfortunate ends. Our mother was the first to vanish, leaving me and Rose and our brother, Hiram, alone with our father. Little Hiram was only three years old. I myself was only five, so it’s hard to recall exactly what happened to our mother. But Rose was seven years old and she remembered, even though she would not speak of it to us, not even when we were a bit older and started asking her about where our mother had got to.

  “Our daddy called himself a preacher but he was nothing more than the tyrant of the Flying Squirrel Road. I did not grieve him when he died.

  “The next to disappear was my sister, Rose, when she was just a teenager, nine years after our mother. And then there were the terrible deaths. First, a boy named Elmore, only fourteen years old. And many years later, when I was a grown woman with my own baby, Elmore’s mother was murdered. Elmore’s mother had become my stepmother after her husband was found dead on the beach. Her death was especially hard on me, although my father didn’t seem moved by her demise any more than he was by our mother’s disappearance. Both Elmore and my stepmother left this earth in gruesome fashion. Finally, my daddy came to his long-suffering end, followed not long after by my little brother, Hiram. And there was my little girl who died. And then my own malicious husband.”

  Ondine was shocked by the list of dead and missing. It was more people than she had realized. She had some of these names written in her notes but hearing the old woman rhyme off the names so quickly was disturbing. The way she told the story, it was as though this had happened recently. Her memory was remarkable, unless she was half senile and making it up. The old woman stopped talking and the air was very still without her voice ringing out. She had a small scowl on her face as she stared at Ondine.

  For a second it seemed the old woman had been listening to her thoughts, that she was annoyed Ondine would doubt her mental acuity. Ondine’s shock must have shown on her face. She was annoyed with herself for being unable to maintain professional composure.

  But the old woman’s face softened and she pointed at Ondine. “Keep fanning yourself, my dear, or you might faint. I’ll take you for a walk down to the beach later but you’ll have to get your strength up.”

  The fan was in Ondine’s lap. She hadn’t realized she had set it there, so lost had she been in the old woman’s astonishing story.

  “I was only fourteen when Rose went away, and I’ve missed her every day right up until this moment. And when I was grown, it was my stepmother’s end which wounded me deep, because I was a young mother then myself. You realize then how little you can do to protect even the most vulnerable.

  “I can tell you they don’t know where my stepmother’s head’s buried. It ain’t with her body. It went in the graveyard, along with one of her arms and her two legs, chopped off like they was pieces of firewood, can you believe it? Don’t look so shocked, girl! We were poor. And of course they didn’t want any gawkers coming round. The pieces of her were laid down in the earth. They didn’t use no coffin, just wrapped my stepmother up in a soft, flowered cloth, the kind she made her dresses from, and then wrapped her parts around again with velvet. I know this for I was there when my stepmother’s sisters gathered up the fabric.

  “It was the end of summer and still hot, so they had to put her in the earth fast and quick. Exact same weather we have today, I’ll have you know. Her sisters have all since departed this earth. Those were the old ways and sometimes those old ways stay behind when the time they arose from has passed. They held onto the old ways, those ladies, I’ll tell you. And that’s what they instructed, to hold on to the old ways, which I’m now telling you, young Ondine. They wrapped my stepmother up by the light of the moon. Not because they were superstitious but because they didn’t want no attention.

  “She was my stepmother but I loved her dearly. You understand . . . sometimes people leave us, even the wee ones.” The old lady coughed and then got up with an unexpected agility for one so stooped and curved, as though for decades she had bent over tidal pools and leaned from a lobster boat hauling traps. She opened the screen door and disappeared down the hall. Ondine could hear clunking inside. She looked out over the road, the bay a soft blue, glistening under the broiling afternoon sun. The shade of the verandah was a sanctuary.

  Ondine saw the door knocker fixed to the outside wall beside the door. It was old and small, made of tarnished brass, and resembled something out of the sea — with a curved head, fins, and a long tail. The wooden door handle was similar, a long, carved fish tail with countless detailed brass scales forming the handle. It looked almost like a sea horse, but Ondine couldn’t be sure without a closer look.

  The old lady came back out and Ondine was surprised how she hadn’t heard her come down the hall, at how quiet she was, even with a cane. She took a sip of water out of a glass jar sitting on the railing. The old woman didn’t offer Ondine anything to drink, but she carefully watched her as she took note of the knocker and handle, noting how Ondine’s eyes moved slowly up and down the objects. Ondine figured she was used to people stopping by, lost, not able to use their phones to figure out where they were, gawking at the old, rundown house and all its strange features. There was intricate stained glass in the main door of the house but it was impossible to see the detail from where Ondine was sitting.

  The old woman took a breath and continued speaking as she sat down. “There were those who thought my stepmother brought it on herself,
and people like my husband who said my father was innocent. But in all our minds we kept thinking of my stepmother’s son, Elmore, who’d died years before, when he fell from a truck. And of course, my sister, Rose, who disappeared. Rose Ondine. You look so much like Rose . . . like I imagine she would have looked if I ever laid eyes on her when she was grown up.

  “They said Rose was pregnant and took off in the night. I don’t know if that’s what happened. I do know the men around here were always worried how their women wouldn’t do as they said. That was always a problem. They said it was a curse, a curse which got awakened when my stepmother got murdered. If she was taken care of, if you don’t mind me putting it that way, then perhaps things would be normal around here, and women would do as their husbands said. But it only got worse after that. Violence never wastes its breath singing a lullaby.”

  Something screeched from the field across the road, and Ondine jumped. Maybe a cicada, she thought. The old lady looked at her. “Don’t mind the creatures. There ain’t nothing to be afraid of. Those men said my father didn’t kill my mother or my stepmother, just like they said he didn’t kill my sister. Of course there was no bodies when it come to my sister, Rose, and our mother. But there are some things they never knew about Rose. Or my stepmother. Things those women kept hid.

  “And now here you are, wanting to know. ‘Tell me your stories,’ you say.

  “My stepmother had such a pretty amethyst ring her first husband gave her and she wore it on her right ring finger, a sparkling amethyst ring he picked up off the beach, as though it had been left there for him to discover. It was so long ago but it looked like the one upon your finger, young Ondine. It was a tradition in these parts for some women to have purple gemstones gathered from the shore, you know. Did your grandmother tell you that?”

  Ondine touched the ring on her sweaty finger without looking down, her eyes fixed on the old lady’s impenetrable face.

  “They say my stepmother’s first husband drowned in the bay, his face buried in a mound of seaweed when the tide washed his body in on the shore. It was common knowledge he was unfaithful, breaking her heart. They said he had gone out for a midnight rendezvous with some girl who lived down in the Valley. After he was buried, my stepmother was left alone on the big old farm and my daddy desired it. It had been a lot of years since our mother and Rose disappeared, and he finally wanted to get away from our place here and the sounds and voices he heard in the woods at night, sounds right inside this house.

  “Daddy had no interest in our stepmother’s grey hair or the lines on her face, but he said the words he thought would charm her. They did, but not enough for her to put the land title in his name and that sent Daddy into a cold quiet rage. My stepmother wore his thin gold band on her ring finger, but even when they had their little marriage with the justice of the peace, she kept wearing that amethyst from her first husband on her other hand. My stepmother carried a bouquet of small white buds she’d cut from a rose bush my sister planted when she was young.”

  Ondine wasn’t going to tell the old woman that the ring Ondine was wearing had been given to her by her grandmother, who had also told her it was a family heirloom she had inherited. But the old woman already seemed to know this. Ondine had no idea how it would have found its way to her grandmother. If the old woman knew, she wasn’t letting on.

  “No one ever could discern what became of the ring, so it must have been still on her hand, the one that went missing along with her head. It made my daddy so angry she wouldn’t take it off, but they was both middle-aged when they got married and my stepmother said you couldn’t put the past behind you like that.

  “Well, my father thought he was someone who could put anything behind him but he could not get away from what he was hearing in the yard and the farmhouse at night.”

  She looked at Ondine and shrugged her shoulder toward the house and then pointed, in case Ondine was confused. “This house.”

  * * *

  The old lady squeezed her eyes shut, as though she’d just realized she had somewhere to be soon. A large bird landed on the weathered verandah railing. Ondine didn’t know what kind of bird it was, a sea bird of some sort. It perched there while the woman kept talking, as though it was waiting for her to pause. It was disturbing. The old woman’s voice was very loud now and she kept raising her hand. It was unnerving, although the bird didn’t seem to mind. Ondine felt impatient and considered interrupting to say she had to leave, that she had miscalculated her time. But now she was worried that if she interrupted the old lady she would be infuriated, or might have some sort of attack.

  “Yes, Don’t come around no more is what my father told them, whenever they sent any of them do-goodies up here on the Lonely Road, up and over the Mountain and then halfways across before turning down the dirt road to our farm. Spies is what he called them all, the social workers, the police, even the preachers. Daddy said they should have been going after the whore who ran off, leaving Rose in charge of me and Hiram. That was what he called our mother. Wasn’t that a nice way to talk to your children? He was a mean old thing. I never talked so to my little girl.

  “Rose was two years older than me and she was just a child herself but she seemed like a grown up, standing in front of us when our father would have a temper, shaking her finger at him. Everybody loved Rose, even our daddy. He was afraid of Rose, though. ‘Those sea-green eyes are full of secrets,’ he’d yell when she’d stand there admonishing him. ‘You’ve got salt water in your veins, but you’re a good girl, Rosie. I know you are. You wouldn’t do nothing bad to your father.’”

  The woman opened her eyes then, and looked at Ondine and shook her finger. “You might see an old woman but inside, behind these eyes, I ain’t no old woman. That’s what you young people don’t understand. I know because I was young too once. Nothing ain’t ever clear until the end. Until it’s too late. My grandfather was a preacher and he said everything you do takes you to the place where you learn a lesson. When you learn the lesson then you can look back and see what all you went through was about. Ain’t no sense in moaning about what’s happening or why. You just got to survive it. And testify.”

  She stood up and grabbed her cane, which had been leaning on the chair. She thumped the cane three times as though she were sending a signal. The bird flew away, letting out a few squawks as it lifted off the railing. “You better be careful what you ask me or I’ll be telling you what my daddy said, that you better not come around here no more, with your recorders and your notebooks. You’re lucky I’m not like Daddy. That’s what he would say and just like I said it now, hissing like a snake, curling the right side of his lip up when he said Missy. ‘Missy’ is a nice word but not how he said it. He could even make the names of flowers sound like horrible swear words and curses — violet, lilac, honeysuckle, peach blossom. He made all them words reek like shit.

  “I can tell from your face you think this is just foolish talk from an old lady. The eyes don’t lie. It is understandable you would think my talk foolish. You remind me of someone, but right now I can’t recall who. Give me a bit of time. It will come to me.”

  In the terrible heat, Ondine shivered. But it was occurring to her that the old woman already knew who she was and understood why Ondine was here. She was just not ready to share that yet.

  * * *

  The old woman had gone back in the house and Ondine listened to her walking down the hall, muttering to herself. Ondine got up to timidly open the screen door and follow her inside and noticed then that the stained glass was very old — shades of blue and grey, waves with small translucent shapes in the midst of them, an opalescent sky overhead the heaving green glass sea. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Ondine jumped. She hadn’t heard her come back. The woman spoke to Ondine through the dark screen. “Antique dealers always want to buy the door right off the house. They might do so one day when I am gone but they’d do well to keep that door from ever attaching to
any other house. My daddy was terrified of it.”

  She came outside, handed Ondine a glass of what looked like iced tea and sat down again. “Have a sip of that tonic. It will restore you. What do I think happened to Rose, you want to know? Ain’t no one asked me that in a long time. Such a long time. Everyone always said she was delicate like the tiny plovers which run along the sand at low tide. Living up here on the Mountain, things don’t seem to change much. They won’t ever pave these roads, and with the mists and fogs blowing through all them gullies and hollers and ravines, they can’t get their satellites to work, or them gadgets and phones they love so. That’s just as well.”

  The old lady was watching Ondine holding the glass, waiting for her to sip. Ondine set the fan down on the verandah railing and looked at the murky liquid. It was a rusty red with an unusual smell, but Ondine was thirsty and her thirst overcame her aversion. She took a small taste. It was tangy and sweet, and she gulped the cold drink down and wiped her lips while the woman resumed talking.

  “Some places don’t want to change. It looks just the same here as it always did. Rose could stroll under those old trees just like all them years ago, calling over to the horses in the summer pasture, flower petals falling at her feet. She planted that big sugar maple there. You can see the horses by the tree. A horse loves some shade. They ain’t the same horses but they’re related. Everyone up here is. The horses loved Rose. It’s one of the reasons my father was always respectful to her. The draught horses wouldn’t tolerate him being cruel to a woman. And they was great big ones, shire horses.

  “For years I would sit here on the verandah looking down the road over there and then to the meadow across from the house, right across the way, expecting Rose to appear by the fountain. You’d hear her first. She’d sing when she’d go walking. Said it kept the coyotes away and celebrated Holy Mother Mercy all at the same time. It didn’t protect her enough, in the end, because Rose never walked back down that road again. But I don’t think it was animals that got her. I think she got away.”