She made her eyes go soft, a little unfocused, and she knelt beside the animal, running her hands over the head and neck. Stress and fear had stiffened the muscles and made them lock up, as if some kind of sudden jolt had caused the horse to panic. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sense whatever it was that had caused the horse to seize. “Did a tree fall around here last night?” She didn’t turn to look at Grace but kept her eyes on the animal.
Grace nodded. “Just behind the barn. That windstorm was fierce. When the tree fell, we all jumped, it was so close. Loud enough we thought it was an earthquake for a minute.”
Emmie ran her hands down the horse’s flank, down the legs. “Feels like he’s injured something, back here in the hindquarters. Like he might have jumped when that tree fell.” Emmie waited a minute, trying to absorb all the information that was radiating up through her hands and arms and into her being. Trying to figure out if the pain was only in a muscle or if there was some kind of internal damage.
She knelt in the muck of the barn and slowly ran her hands over every inch of the horse’s body that she could reach. She concentrated on that pulled muscle, and when the heat began to soften in that area, she moved back to the head. She sat down, taking the horse’s head in her lap, and laid her hand on his forehead, gently rubbing.
They could both see that the horse was breathing deeper, long, slow breaths.
Grace stood nearby, Robin balanced in her arms. Tears raced down her cheeks. “I know this is how life is, on a farm. They’re born. They die. It’s all part of the process.” She brushed tears away with the back of her hand. And then she raised her eyes to Emmie. “He’s twenty-four years old; it’s not like he’s a young colt. But I’m not ready to let him go just yet.”
Emmie stared into the blue eyes of the woman, and then refocused her attention on the horse. She continued to rub the forehead and jaw and neck. Though she had soothed the torn muscle, Emmie sensed that the horse was still suffering from that feeling of fear, from the adrenaline rush of the life-threatening crash that had started the problem. She kept her hands on the horse’s head, rubbing gently. The horse kept his eyes closed. He lay completely still, barely breathing.
“Oh, God.” Grace turned away, raised a hand to her mouth, and bit on the side of her finger. With baby Robin still in her arms, Grace sank down on her knees beside the animal.
The horse rolled slightly, raising his head and neck, and pressed his muzzle against Grace’s arm. Grace reached to touch him; she watched as he struggled to get his legs beneath him and stand up.
“Easy, boy,” Emmie whispered. She continued her massage, even after the horse was standing, working her hands over every part of his body, easing the tension and fear and cramped muscles. Trying to ease the apprehension that had lodged in the horse’s mind. Half an hour later, the horse walked over to the hay that Grace had put out earlier that morning and began to eat.
The horse recovered and lived another eight years. And Grace Wheeler became Emmie’s best friend.
For Emmie, that was the beginning of earning a living from her skill set. From the moment she first held Robin in her arms, she knew that she could not go back to work at the Drift Inn, that she could not leave this child for hours every day. And so she decided, as if making up her mind was all it took, that she would find a way to make a living that would keep her at home with her baby.
After Grace told a few people about how Emmie managed to help her horse, others showed up. They weren’t keen to have that bit of knowledge spread around town, and most of them were even a little embarrassed to have to ask for woo-woo medicine for their dogs and cats and horses and, even once, a chicken. But word spread, and though they called her the “village witch” behind her back, they still showed up when they had an animal in trouble.
Some paid her. Some didn’t. Some brought her firewood, or a side of beef, or vegetables from their gardens. Some brought her fleeces from their sheep. Emmie used it all. She cleaned the fleece and carded it, and Kate Taylor taught her to spin and weave. Emmie may not have had a great deal of cash, but neither did the people who needed her services with their horses or dogs or cats.
The great abundance of wool gave Emmie opportunity for another income stream. After she spun the wool, she used her knitting needles to make scarves and hats and mittens and sweaters for herself and Robin. With the long dark hours of winter, and the excess of wool she traded for, she soon had extras to sell at the Christmas bazaar, held every year at the old Hadley house.
That first day of her first Christmas fair was awful. No one wanted to buy from her. Despite the fact that she knew most of the people in town and had treated animals for a fair share of them, none of them were willing to acknowledge Emmie’s role in their lives. They stayed away from her booth, and none of them would dare to look her in the eyes. The idea of wearing something made by the village witch, made by that woman who did all that weird mumbo jumbo with the animals, was far more than any of the townspeople could handle. As if anything Emmie touched might carry some kind of dark magic.
Sales stayed at a slim nothing until Saturday afternoon, when Maggie Edwards walked in the door and moved slowly around all the tables. She stopped at Emmie’s booth and picked up a thick sweater, a spectacular cabled Aran cardigan in deep gray wool that Emmie had carded and cleaned and spun herself. Maggie paid her $200, an absolute fortune in 1972.
Maggie put it on immediately, running her hands down the fronts of the cables, and said as loudly as she could, “Witch, my eye. You people, I swear.” She turned to look at everyone who stood in the room, meeting each set of eyes until they were forced to look away. After she left, a few brave souls stepped up and bought mittens or a hat, believing that if Maggie Edwards thought it was safe to buy Emmie’s knitwear, it might be possible to wear it without incident.
The next year, sales picked up. Maggie had worn her gray sweater all year and hadn’t died or become lame, so perhaps Emmie’s knitwear wasn’t cursed, after all. She never made a fortune at those Christmas sales, but every bit helped in eking out a life for herself and her daughter.
Maggie might have made it acceptable to buy Emmie’s knitwear, and even to wear it, but that didn’t keep people from casting side-eyes at Emmie when she walked down the street. And nothing would ever keep them from turning to whisper to each other as soon as she had passed. She attracted gossip the way most people attracted lint.
That was over forty years ago. Emmie walked down the road with her old dog Pete, stopping at the edge of the cemetery, as she always did. Maggie may have helped her out, way back then, but they hadn’t spoken to each other since 1987. Emmie gazed up the hill, in the direction of Maggie’s cabin. The trees were too thick for a direct view, but if she gazed long enough, her eye usually picked up a glimmer of window glass, or sometimes the pale glow of a lamp, always lit in these dark days of winter.
It certainly did not appear that Maggie was ever going to forgive her.
FOURTEEN
Alex stood at the mirror in the front hallway, looking closely at the skin around her eyes. The bruises had faded; a yellow color remained, something like you might expect with a person who had had the flu. She stepped back, searching for the small makeup bag that she carried. It wasn’t much—just a tube of concealer and a small bottle of foundation. Just enough to cover the weird colors that sometimes bloomed across her face. She pulled out the tube of concealer and squeezed a drop of white goo on her fingers. She dotted it around the discoloration, blending it in as well as she could, wincing once or twice when she caught an area that was still tender.
She stared at that eye, remembering the eye of the orca when it had rolled under the boat.
The memory came flying back, a sudden specter from the past, as if she were standing in front of that same mirror at work, all those years ago. She’d gone to the ladies’ room, taking her time in the stall until the room was empty, and had then stood in front of the mirror, trying to apply the concealer she had boug
ht just a few days before. Alex had never worn makeup; she had bypassed all those girls in high school and college who might have taught her the proper ways to apply it. She had practiced a few times now, but she still managed to make a gooey mess more often than not.
The door to the restroom swung open, and Renee Timothy walked in. Instead of making a beeline for a stall and giving Alex a chance to hide her makeup bag, she went straight to the sink. Alex saw that her hands were covered with ink.
She looked at Alex in the mirror in front of them. “I didn’t know you wore makeup, Alex.”
Alex swallowed and zipped her bag closed, stowing it in her purse. “I don’t really. Not much, anyway.” She met Renee’s eyes in the glass. “Trying to even out my skin tone a little.”
Renee nodded and reached for a paper towel. “Yeah, you do look a little tired.” She smiled broadly. “Must be that new husband, eh?” She poked her elbow toward Alex’s side. “Keeping you up nights? Did he wrap it in a big red bow for your Christmas present?”
Alex bit her lip and tipped her head, a gesture that could mean absolutely anything.
That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but she felt no need to explain. The two women were just back from the Christmas holiday, the library being closed along with the rest of the campus for Christmas and New Year’s. If Renee had seen Alex’s eye a week ago, there would have been no question about what had caused those dark circles.
They’d been married almost a year at that point. Up until then, most of Daniel’s threats had come in the form of a loud voice, or slapping a hand on the table, or grabbing her a bit too forcefully. This was different.
Her mother had been cooking for three days, excited as she always was for Christmas. Frances made the traditional foods that she had grown up with: tamales, bizcochitos, pumpkin empanadas, fruit salad. All those years that it had been just Alex and her mother, but Frances had always cooked as if a very large family might appear on their doorstep, making far more food than the two of them could ever eat. And her mother was always happy to share, if there did happen to be someone at her office who needed a place to spend Christmas. She loved it, every part of the food and lights and Christmas carols. This would be the first Christmas with Daniel in the family, and Frances had gone all out.
“Ready?” Alex asked.
Daniel was sprawled in his favorite chair in their living room, legs spread wide, a beer in hand. The television set was blaring. He looked up at her and waved his hand for her to move. “I’m watching the game.”
Alex moved to the side and looked at the clock. “Mom said two, and it’s already ten minutes till.”
He ignored her, taking a swig of beer, his eyes locked on the television.
She waited for him to respond. “Can’t you watch it at Mom’s? She’s been cooking for three days . . .”
She never had a chance to finish that sentence. Before she saw it coming, he had stood and swung, hitting her squarely in the left eye. She staggered and fell, the pain sending sparks all over her skin and face. She raised her hand and saw that blood was dripping from her nose.
Daniel stood over her for a moment. “Mom this. Mom that. You’re my wife, goddamn it! We’ll go when I’m ready. If I’m ready.”
He left the room. She heard him in the kitchen, grabbing another beer and popping it open. She tipped her head back, trying to stop the trickle of blood from her nose, and headed to the bathroom. The eye wasn’t black yet, but it was swelling quickly, and there were broken blood vessels. She leaned over the sink, trying to get a good look at the damage, trying not to give in to the tears. She could hear Daniel in the front room, yelling, “YES!” as his team scored.
She cleaned up as best she could, balling up her ruined shirt and stuffing it in the trash. And then she headed to the kitchen for ice. Her whole body trembled; she forced herself not to cry. She called her mother fifteen minutes later.
“Mom?” Her voice vibrated with emotion; she could barely breathe, her nose starting to swell along with her eye. She was sick from the pain, sick from the idea that her husband would haul back and hit her right in the face. Sick sick sick that she would not be going to spend Christmas with her mother. Frances would be sitting alone, with all that food. Alex forced herself to swallow, to keep going.
“Mom?” She gulped, another wave of emotion threatening to pull her under. She forced herself to breathe. “I’m not feeling well. I think I might be coming down with the flu.” Alex hated the thought of lying to her mother, but she had no idea what else to do. She wanted to run to her, to cry on her shoulder, to curse the man who had just done this to her. But she had watched her mother suffer enough, all those years ago, and she wasn’t about to lay anything else on Frances’ shoulders. “I don’t think there’s any way I can make it today.” That part, at least, was true.
“Oh, honey!” Her mother waited a fraction of a second, the way she always did when she was trying to compose herself. “Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to come over there? I could pack up some of the food. At least Daniel could have Christmas, and—”
“No, Mom, that’s okay.” Alex felt tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t want you to catch this . . . whatever it is.”
A moment passed, and Frances’ voice was soft and quiet. “Okay. I hope you feel better. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” Alex fought hard to keep her voice level.
Her mother waited, as if holding on to her daughter. “Merry Christmas, honey.”
Alex took a shower, put more ice on her eye, and went to bed. He came in around eleven, the smell of sour beer breath enough to make her feel like she might throw up. When he put his hand on her arm, she jerked away.
“Alex. Alex. Alex. Are you okay?”
She lay completely still, her back to him.
“I didn’t mean to do that, Alex. It’s just . . . it’s just that . . . I love you so much. You have no idea how much.” He took a breath. “Sometimes I . . . I can’t stand the thought of sharing you with anyone. Not even your mother.” He rubbed his hand up and down her arm. “I just want you all to myself.”
Tears were leaking from the eye that still opened.
“I can’t live without you, Alex. I really can’t.” He nuzzled his whiskered face against her upper arm and lay down behind her, wrapping his arms around her.
Alex stood in front of the mirror at the house in Copper Cove. She spoke to her reflection, as if speaking to the man who had hit her, who had turned that eye to such an awful color.
“Never again,” she murmured. She felt her jaw go hard, her teeth grinding together. “You will never hit me again.”
She stood, staring into the mirror. Her musing was broken by a loud click, like the sound of a door being unlocked. Alex came slowly back to awareness, staring at her face in the mirror. And that was when she saw it, reflected in the glass right next to her face. The door to the back porch behind her slowly swung open. Cold air rushed in and swirled up around her.
She stared into the glass. No one was there.
Alex turned and went to the back door. She stepped onto the back porch and lifted the shade to look outside, out into the dark curtain of giant cedars. There was no one there. No one outside, no one on the porch. No one that she could see. She closed the door and turned the lock.
She shivered, still wrapped in the embrace of that rush of cold air.
FIFTEEN
By the time the afternoon rolled around, Alex was ready to get out of the house. There was no television, no radio, in this house on the cove, and she was hungry for sound. She headed downhill, not exactly sure where she was going. And then she saw the warm glow of lamplight at the old Hadley house. She hadn’t planned on going back, but as soon as she noticed the light, she decided. When she opened the door, the smell of strong coffee and a ring of laughter rose to greet her.
“Alex! You look like hell.” It was the first thing out of Caroline’s mouth when Alex walked into the parlor.
“Thanks. Nice to see you, too.” Alex stood for a moment, looking around the group.
“Ignore her,” Grace said, stopping her spinning wheel for a moment. “We are glad you could make it, Alex. I was really hoping you would come.”
“I didn’t mean anything awful by it. I mean, cripes! She is working for Maggie. And living in a haunted house.” Caroline huffed.
Alex looked up; Caroline’s eyes were focused on her knitting, a narrow scarf on huge needles.
“Everyone in town lives in a haunted house,” Grace quipped. “According to the venerable editor of our local newspaper, anyway.”
Grace stopped spinning and indicated the chair next to her. “Alex, come sit here by me. I brought a spinning wheel that I’m going to loan to you. Spinning is the perfect medicine for anything that ails you.”
Alex moved to the chair next to her and sank into it, trying to force her body to relax. “I don’t know how to spin.”
Grace smiled. “You will.”
“We’re glad you could make it, Alex. I was hoping Caroline hadn’t scared you off for good,” David said. “We don’t often get someone under fifty in this group. Forgive us if we latch on to you like a life preserver.”
Alex smiled. “I saw the light on and thought I’d say hello.” She felt better already, surrounded by this small group of spinners.
“From the look on your face, it appears that no one has shared the secret of surviving winter in the Pacific Northwest.” David’s head was tipped back, looking at her down the length of his nose.
“You mean coffee and baked goods?” Alex asked.
David laughed. He shook his head. “No, although that is an important piece of survival strategy. But the other absolute necessity can be found in a bottle.” He shook a bottle, held inside his fist. “Hold out your hand. I’m dispensing drugs over here.”
Caroline leaned over to examine what he was shaking out into Alex’s palm. “Since when does heroin come in gelcaps?”
David turned and gave her a pained look. “Vitamin D. We have a severe shortage out here. Short days, long nights, very little sun this far north. I mean . . . you could stand out in the rain all day, naked as a jaybird, all your skin exposed to whatever light is available, and you still wouldn’t absorb enough vitamin D to make a difference. And of course, you’d freeze to death first.”
The Music of the Deep: A Novel Page 12
