Tuesday Mooney Wore Black

by Kate Racculia

  Lyle waved to Marcus, and Tuesday saw it wasn’t Marcus, but Colin. He waved back. Both brothers were here, along with a whole crew – Tuesday saw everyone now, a fleet of workers in steel-toed boots and hard hats and goggles, digging into the house. “The Shaughnessys were a find,” said Lyle. She continued walking along the wall, beneath the balcony, toward the left side of the grand staircase and the kitchen beneath.

  “It’ll be quieter in here,” said Lyle, pushing the door open. “Kind of using this space as headquarters for now. Ah!”

  Verena Parkman was sitting at the oversized kitchen table, surrounded by papers and ancient ledgers. She looked up when Lyle and Tuesday entered.

  “Well.” Verena’s face crinkled happily. “Look who’s up and about.” She nodded at Tuesday’s umbrella. “I see you’ve got your trusty bumbershoot.”

  Tuesday wasn’t sure how to react.

  “Give us a minute?” asked Lyle. Verena rubbed her hands together happily and rose. “Almost time for elevenses anyway,” she said, and left through another door, disappearing into one of the house’s many chambers.

  “What’s going on?” Tuesday asked.

  Lyle gestured toward the stools at the table. Tuesday sat. Lyle sat beside her.

  “I’m putting together a team,” Lyle said.

  Tuesday tilted a little.

  “What?” Lyle deadpanned. “Regular people can’t put together teams?”

  “Are you regular people?” asked Tuesday.

  “Girl,” said Lyle. “Please. You know regular is relative.”

  “A team to do what?” Tuesday asked.

  “Lots of things,” said Lyle. “Bring the house back to life. Figure out who Matilda Tillerman was, and how and why she painted all of that, and share it with the world. Preserve the fresco and the gold and silver ceiling, open it up to the public, make it a space that brings people together. Vince didn’t have the time, but he had the money. I have the money now. I have the time. To use this money to do something to help, put something good into the world. Because the world, my goodness.” She rested her hand on her belly, which was very full and very obviously pregnant. Tuesday wondered if Lyle even knew she was doing it. “Has problems. Of some magnitude.” Her chest rose as she inhaled. “But!” She brightened, and it wasn’t false cheer. It was an act of hope. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my forty years on the planet.” She fixed her eyes on Tuesday. “No one can change it alone.”

  It was a good speech. Tuesday said quietly, “What can I do?”

  “Find stuff,” said Lyle. “Information. The way you found that movie theater. I need someone who can find people and places all over the world.”

  “To anonymously donate money. Like” – Tuesday felt herself starting to glow – “angel investing. Crossed with microfinancing. Crossed with … MacArthur fellowships?”

  “I was also maybe thinking of turning the castle on Nantucket into a national lottery-based performing arts and humanities boarding school. Sort of a real Hogwarts, but completely free,” said Lyle. “Did you ever think about that, like, does Hogwarts offer need-based tuition assistance?”

  “What?”

  “I have a lot of ideas,” said Lyle. “I need someone to bounce them off. Anyway.” She coughed into her clenched fist. Then she brought both hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “I would like to formally offer you a job,” she said. “Finding people. Organizations. Places, institutions, and situations where we, the outrageously fortunate, might be of assistance, either monetarily or – I don’t know, some other way we haven’t imagined yet. I need a friend with a moral compass and a sharp head who can help me find—” Lyle’s impassioned roll skidded to a stop. “Look,” she said, “I’m not so naive as to say we’re going to find the answers. But you know how to look. Maybe you can find some clues. And maybe you can help me figure out how to strategically and responsibly die, God willing many years from now, totally broke.”

  Tuesday pointed at Lyle’s belly.

  “What about the baby?”

  Lyle didn’t even blink. “The babies,” she said, “already have a trust fund. They’re fine. And they’re going to grow up learning how to share.” She paused. “Do you babysit?”

  “I know a dependable fourteen-year-old who might be interested,” Tuesday said. “And also a dramatic thirty-four-year-old who loves a captive audience.” This was all – this was so much. It was – taking it in was making Tuesday lightheaded. “Was this whole – was the whole point—”

  “Was what,” Lyle said, “the whole point?”

  “You hired the Shaughnessy brothers to renovate the house, Verena’s” – she gestured to the old books on the other side of the table – “doing something archival, from the looks of it. Who else is stashed away in this—”

  She almost swallowed her tongue. It was too pertinent a question to ask aloud, too much to know and not tell. She would have to, at some point. But not right now. She tried again.

  “Who else is on this team you’re putting together?”

  “I gave each of the thirteen a choice,” Lyle said. “A half-million-dollar cash prize up front, hooray, you won the game, no strings attached. Or.” She grinned. “A job. With salary, consulting fees, benefits, whatever you need. Future fortunes yet to be discovered. You’re the last of the thirteen I’m asking.”

  “The last?”

  “Ned Kennedy and Dorry Bones and Ned’s sister and her friend are going to work here once the house is fully restored – after-school job, community outreach organizers – but they also took the payout, all four of them. To split with the Black Cats, that whole Facebook group. I know, I made an exception. They were a special case.” She counted on her fingers. “Archie took the payout. Which I gave to him on the condition that he drop it into a trust for Dorry, though I’m not sure Dorry knows that yet.” She cocked her head, appraising Tuesday’s open-mouthed shock. “Frankly, I’m astonished Dex didn’t spill the beans. He took the payout a month ago. Rabbit made him promise to keep it secret, but.” She made a face that Tuesday interpreted as You know Dex. Which she did, and so did Lyle now, too. “I’ll let him fill you in on his grand plans. Of course you’re free to take the money too, but I’m giving you the hard sell. I want you with us.”

  “Was this all—” Tuesday didn’t know how to wrap her tongue or her mind around what she had done, what game she had played, what she had won and lost since that October day when she watched an old man pretend to die in the ballroom of the Four Seasons. She landed on the matter at hand.

  “Was all of this a job interview?” she asked.

  “Is anything,” asked Lyle, rocking back on her stool, “ever only one thing?”

  It was a good answer.

  “Come on,” said Lyle, shouldering a quatrefoil-splattered Louis Vuitton bag the size of a pumpkin, “we’re picking up lunch for everyone. We can talk more about the job on the way.” They returned to the great hall. It rang with banging and sawing, destruction and creation. Tuesday’s head was full of clear light. She was going to take the job. It was a decision she wasn’t even conscious of making. Of course she would take this job, but not only because she needed one. She would take it because it was a mystery. Because it was with Lyle, and the other people who had answered Vincent Pryce’s call. Because it was in this house, at the end of this game, and everything that had already happened was always, still, the beginning of what came next. The air smelled electrical, and of freshly cut wood. Lyle pulled off her plastic goggles and they tangled briefly with her ponytail.

  The silver tip of the umbrella made a wonderful click when Tuesday pressed it to the floor with each step.

  Lyle dug into the giant bag. Her brow creased.

  “Must’ve left my keys in the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Hang here. With Matilda.”

  She left Tuesday in front of the painting of Matilda Tillerman – the self-portrait still hanging on the wall beneath the balcony. A protective sheet of plastic had bee
n stapled over it, pulled tight and shining. Tuesday regarded Matilda, and Matilda regarded her right back. How on earth had she managed to paint a towering fresco without anyone discovering it for over a hundred years? Had she done the ceiling too? The painting’s eyes were very dark and very alive. Her lips were parted slightly, as though she were about to speak. Tuesday’s eyes moved down to her shoulders, to the details of the black dress she’d painted—

  And she saw Abby.

  Abby Hobbes, reflected in the taut plastic sheet, was staring back at her.

  Her hair was red, massive with curls. Her eyes were gleaming, as surprised to be seen as Tuesday was to see her. It was Abby. To see her, to see Abby’s face, with her own eyes and not the eye in her mind – to see her instead of just hearing the echo she’d left in Tuesday’s memory – Tuesday could not explain it. Tuesday could not doubt it. Abby hadn’t aged. Abby was sixteen. Abby would be sixteen forever. She’d forgotten how much child was still in Abby’s face, how full her cheeks were, how her freckles cascaded down either side of her nose. There was a wayward curl floating off the top of her head, crooked at an angle. The corner of her mouth twitched, like she wanted to react – to smile, to laugh, to say something – but was too stunned to do anything but look back at Tuesday. At the human she used to haunt. The friend she’d had to abandon to save.

  But here they both were, still.

  Tuesday turned around.

  No one was there.

  Abby wasn’t there, because of course she couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be. But neither was there a member of the Shaughnessys’ crew, who happened, when you caught her curly-headed reflection in a sheet of plastic, to bear a passing resemblance to the first love Tuesday ever lost.

  The string that her heart had always been following.

  Tuesday turned back to the painting. Abby was gone. She saw her own face reflected. She saw workers in the background, moving with tools, standing with their hands on their hips, talking with each other. She saw Matilda Tillerman’s face, painted, silent, beneath the plastic. She heard nothing but saws and hammers. The thud of a heavy object falling. Footsteps approaching. Lyle’s keys jangling.

  “Whoa. You okay?” Lyle said, stopping short. “Look like you’ve seen a—” She laughed. “In this place, who hasn’t?”

  Tuesday had been holding her breath.

  “I’m good,” she said, and let it go.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You hold this book in your hands

  because Bonnie Nadell and Austen Rachlis, no matter how many bananas drafts they read (and boy were they bananas), saw what this book could be, and helped me to see it too. Because Naomi Gibbs saw it and brought it fully into itself, and was a joy to work with, like everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt: Larry Cooper, Chrissy Kurpeski, Liz Anderson, Michelle Triant, among others, who took my weird visions and made them manifest, and beautiful. And because Andrea Schulz, years ago, when she first heard about my day job, said, Oh, you should definitely write about that. Thank you, Kayla Rae Whitaker and Amber Sparks, for your words and your kindness.

  You hold this book because I lived in Boston for eleven years and worked in both fundraising and finance, and had a LOT to process. Thank you, MGH and the Prospect Research Team (2010–2014), especially Angie Morey. I loved the work, but I loved working with you all even more. You are an astounding group of human beings. Thank you, Michael and Deanna Sheridan, Wendy Price, Barry Abrams, Heather Heald, and Eddie Miller, for the years before MGH, the days of RFPs and BlackBerrys (those who know, know). I didn’t always love the work itself, but working with you was a gift, and it changed my life. Thank you, Grub Street, which I am thrilled to work for still; thank you to Michelle Hoover, Alison Murphy, and Chris Castellani, and to all the thoughtful, visionary, funny, and immensely talented writers and people in the Grub universe.

  You hold this book because of my friends, who are my family; and my family, who are my friends. It exists because I didn’t stop, and I didn’t stop because of the people I’m lucky to know and to love. You keep me safe and sane; you make my life rich. My beloved Bostonians: Laura Q. (my common-law Boston marriage) and Mike Messersmith, Jason and Karen Clarke, Jenn and Dave Wolff, Nam Nguyen, Alyssa Osiecki, Kristin Osiecki. Lit Team Boston Forever: Rob and Karissa Kloss, Steve Himmer, Sage Brousseau, Kevin Fanning. The cheering section: Bob Erlenback, Eric Rezsnyak, Louise Miller (I am so happy to be your friend), Gina Damico (WHY DIDN’T WE HANG ALL THE TIME WHEN WE LIVED IN BOSTON), Rachel Fershleiser and Liberty Hardy (you are both champions for books and it is a glorious thing), Margaret Willison (your enthusiasm, your sheer light, is a force of nature, and I am beyond grateful to know you), Kathryn VanArendonk (dolphin gif goes here), Joyce Hinnefeld, Josh Berk, Domenic Breininger, Kiera Wilhelm, Shannon Aloise, Mary Jo Lodge, Kirsten Hess and Christa Neu. My Bethlehem-by-way-of-Buffalo family: Jenna Lay (with whom I’ve shared so many, many adventures; none of this without you, always); Sandra, Garret, Elena, Zoey, and Oliver Lau (Elena, someday you’ll get to read these, and I promise you’ll be glad you waited); Manda Betts (by way of Rochester). You hold this book because my mother and my father never said, Writing is not a job. Because the Racculias and the VanSkivers taught me the tremendous value of words and stories and art and music. Because the Bach Choir of Bethlehem helped me put down roots in my new home, and the Bethlehem Area Public Library made those roots deeper. And because Bruce Coville wrote back to the fan mail I sent him when I was eight, and showed me that ghosts were people and so were writers.

  Thank you for reading; thank you, thank you, all.

  About the Author

  Kate Racculia is the author of the novels This Must Be the Place and Bellweather Rhapsody, winner of the American Library Association’s Alex Award. She works for the Bethlehem Area Public Library in Pennsylvania.

  You can find her at www.kateracculia.com or @kateracculia.

  Also by Kate Racculia

  This Must Be the Place

  Bellweather Rhapsody

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