Stillwater

by Maynard Sims

  “I have to work.” She cut him off. “Sorry.” She found herself blushing; could feel the color rushing to her cheeks.

  “Two hours. Surely you could spare that, just to enjoy the sunshine.”

  She could feel her resolve wavering. Lack of sleep and a marathon editing session was making her mind feel sluggish. Perhaps being outside in the sunshine would help.

  “Just two hours?”

  “No more. Promise. Estate agent’s honor.”

  “Is there such a thing?” She had a sudden thought. “Excuse me a moment. I have to do something.” Quickly she wheeled herself to her bedroom, and opened the door. Teddy was waiting on the other side, and as soon as he saw daylight he shot out of the room, and dashed to the back door. In the doorway the cat paused and looked back her, the flicking of his tail betraying his uncertainty.

  “It’s all right. Go on.”

  The cat gave a final meow, and disappeared into the garden.

  “What’s wrong with the cat?” James said.

  “He had a bad scare last night. I left the door open when I went out last night and a stray cat came into the house. He doesn’t handle confrontation well, and he freaked.” She paused thoughtfully. “Actually, you could do me a huge favor.”

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Go on,” he said suspiciously.

  “I’m worried the stray is still in the house somewhere. Could you check the upstairs? Obviously I—”

  “You’re not allowed up there.” He cut her off tactfully. “I’ll do it now…while you get dressed.”

  “What?” She looked down at herself, and was mortified to see she was still wearing her pajamas. “Sorry,” she spluttered. “I lost track of time.”

  He was smiling, and waved her explanation away. “You don’t have to worry with me. Besides…” The smile broadened.

  “Stop laughing at me.” She turned and wheeled herself into the bedroom.

  “I was going to say, I think you look cute.”

  She reached out and slammed the door shut. Cute! Really? she thought angrily. Then she caught her reflection in the dressing table mirror. To her surprise she saw that she was smiling.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time she had dressed, applied her make-up, gelled her fingers and run them through her close-cropped dark brown hair another hour had gone by. Sheepishly she rolled back into the other room. “Sorry, it doesn’t normally take that long.”

  He was standing on the other side of the room, by her CD player and the small stack of discs by the side of it.

  “It’s okay. I can forgive you for that. But I’m not really sure I can forgive you for this.” He held a disc out for her to see. “I mean, Celine Dion? Will your heart really go on?”

  She wheeled herself across to him and snatched the CD out of his hand.

  “Guilty pleasure,” she said. “I’m sure you have plenty.”

  “Afraid not,” he said. “Unless you count Dire Straits,” he added thoughtfully.

  She pounced on that. “I do,” she said. “We’re equal.”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “Did you find the stray?” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Not a sign…apart from that.” He pointed to the coffee table. For the first time she noticed the broken fragments of a blue and white willow-pattern plate piled forlornly in its center.

  “It’s beyond repair, I expect,” Beth said.

  “It certainly looks like it. I can’t imagine how it was knocked off the wall though. The hook it was hanging from is fairly high up.”

  “I’ll pay for it of course.”

  “I really wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’m no expert but I shouldn’t think Sotheby’s will be mourning its loss to the antique world. You might have to pay for this though.” He walked across to the bedroom door and pointed. She followed him and stared. Two-thirds of the way up the door was a series of deep vertical scratches.

  “Your stray must have been a hell of a size to reach up and scratch this high. And strong too, judging from the depth of them.”

  Beth peered closer at the scratches. “They don’t look like they’ve been done by a cat,” she said. “They’re too high, too deep, but look at how wide they are apart.” She reached out, and traced the scratches down the door with her fingernails. “A bigger animal than a cat made these. A dog perhaps, although…”

  “It wasn’t a dog,” James said. “At least not one that I’ve come across. I used to keep a Great Dane—and that’s a pretty big animal—and she could never have made marks like these. I don’t think dogs’ claws are that sharp.”

  Beth shivered. “Well, whatever the animal was, I’m glad I didn’t open the door to it, and I’m relieved it’s gone now. Could have been a fox?”

  “I think I was lucky not to have run into it upstairs. It could have ripped my throat out.”

  She looked up at him sharply. He was smiling.

  “It’s not funny,” she said. Then she, too, was smiling. “All right. Perhaps it was…a little. I do get a little intense sometimes. I have an active imagination.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this picnic underway.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, puzzled.

  “Food?”

  “Ah,” he said.

  She glanced at the fridge. “I might be able to throw something together…”

  “It’s in the car.”

  She wasn’t really listening to him. “…or we could always drive into the village and… what?”

  “It’s in the car. A hamper.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Actually, I thought we could go in my car. It’s specially adapted.”

  “We don’t need a car. I know the perfect spot and it’s within walking distance.”

  She stared at him, unsure if he was being ignorant or not. She looked down at her chair. “You may not have noticed, but walking is not exactly my strong suit.”

  “It’s within wheeling distance as well. I’ll push. You can carry the hamper.”

  Before she had time to protest or object, James came up behind her, grabbed the wheelchair’s handles, and propelled her out of the house.

  “I know where we’re going,” Beth said.

  James was pushing her along the path leading to the lake.

  “Really?”

  “The lake,” she said. “I came here with Miranda.”

  The left hand wheel of the chair dropped into a shallow pothole in the path, and the chair lurched to the side. The wickerwork picnic hamper resting on the arms of the chair started to slide. Beth grabbed it before it could fall.

  “Sorry,” James said. “Didn’t see that one. Almost there, and yes, we are going to the lake. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s fine.” A little later she said, “Did you know her?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl who drowned in the lake. Jessica?”

  James Bartlett stopped pushing. “Yes, it was. How did you hear about it?”

  “People talk,” she said.

  “I wish they wouldn’t.”

  “Are we having the picnic here?” she asked, after they had been stopped for a while.

  He seemed miles away, lost in thought.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  He physically shook himself. “Sorry. No. It’s a few hundred yards further on.” He leaned against the wheelchair, and started forward again.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Did I know Jessica Franklin? Yes, I knew her. She was a year below me at school.”

  “And was she as bad as people make out?”

  “Jessica? Bad? No. If she was bad it was a side of her I never saw. I thought she was rather sweet.
Away with the fairies for much of the time, but not what I would call a bad person.”

  “I heard she was unpopular. Disliked even. Did you notice people taking against her?”

  He ignored the question. “It’s just up here.” He wheeled her along the path and took a sharp right through a stand of elders.

  They broke through the trees into a clearing roughly opposite the point she and Miranda had emerged during their walk the other day. With dappled sunlight pouring through the crowns of surrounding trees the spot looked idyllic, and just the site for a picnic. Even the lake seemed more picturesque than it had been before. The weeds here were thinner, and water could be glimpsed in the gaps, catching the sunlight and splitting the rays, making it look like tiny diamonds were dancing on the surface.

  He took the hamper from her, set it on the ground and raised the lid. He took out a folded, plaid blanket, shook it open and spread it out. Then he went back to Beth and released the drop-down armrest of the wheelchair. She said nothing as he slid his arms underneath her, and lifted her from the chair, taking her across to the blanket, and softly setting her down. It was a gently intimate thing to do, but she didn’t object.

  Squatting next to her he started to remove other items from the hamper: two thermos flasks—“Tea and coffee. I didn’t know which you would prefer.” Foil-wrapped parcels of food came next, followed by china plates, cutlery and wine glasses. With a flourish he produced a bottle of champagne sheathed in what looked like a padded, sleeveless jacket. “Ice pack.” He indicated the jacket. “I hate warm champagne.”

  “Me too. You didn’t answer my question.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “Did you notice if she was being bullied at school, or outside for that matter?”

  He sighed, and popped the champagne cork, pouring the foaming liquid into the two glasses. “Jessica had a couple of things going against her. For a start she was a newbie. It’s very difficult starting a new school in your teens, trying to make friends. The second thing…well…she was very attractive. Stunning actually. So the other girls were jealous of her, and the boys were in awe of her. Nobody ever asked her out, and she gradually got a reputation for being aloof, when in actual fact she was just trying to protect herself.” He handed Beth a glass of the bubbling champagne. “Here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass. “Let’s hope Stillwater fires your imagination.”

  They clinked glasses and Beth took a sip. “Delicious,” she purred. “Let’s eat.”

  With her stomach full, and two glasses of champagne playing havoc with her thoughts, she lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky. “Butterfly,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “In the sky. The clouds look like a butterfly.”

  He looked up. “Ah, yes. I see it.” He leaned back on his elbow, scanned the sky and pointed. “Dragon.”

  “Where?” She squinted up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  “To your left. Quickly, the sun’s burning it off.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  The cumulus clouds rearranged themselves, melding and twisting, drifting slowly toward each other, forming a few more recognizable shapes before uniting in a large amorphous mass.

  “Do you think she killed herself?”

  “Who?”

  “Jessica.”

  “Why the interest? It was years ago.”

  “It just seems odd, that’s all. A healthy young girl, a strong swimmer by all accounts, drowns in a placid lake. I mean,” she said, staring out across the water. “It hardly looks hazardous does it?”

  “She got herself tangled up in the weed. That’s what did for her. As for suicide…she wasn’t the type. Mentally she was very strong.”

  “You speak of her with a lot of admiration in your voice. Were you one of the boys too awestruck to ask her out?” When he didn’t answer she added, “Or were you two an item?”

  Irritation flared in his eyes. “Do you mind if we change the subject? This topic was old news fifteen years ago; it’s ancient history now. Sorry.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s me who should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  An uneasy silence settled over them.

  James finally broke it. “How’s the new book coming along?”

  “Surprisingly easily. Mind you, it’s an old idea that’s been simmering away for the past few years, but it’s finally found a focus. I think Stillwater might have something to do with it. It’s peaceful there, the telephone hardly rings and I don’t have friends popping in for coffee at the drop of a hat.”

  “Just idiots inviting you out for picnics.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I appreciate the gesture. It’s been lovely.” She touched his hand.

  “Good. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself.” He didn’t pull his hand away.

  “For some reason people see you working from home and, worse still, know you’re a writer, and suddenly you’re just there for their convenience. My mother’s one of the worst; always dropping in on the flimsiest of pretexts. Sometimes, when we get a quiet moment together, she’ll say, ‘Writing stories is all well and good, Elizabeth, but it’s not like it’s a real job, is it?’ She compares me with my sister, Katherine, who worked in banking, conveniently forgetting that it was money earned from my books that not only bought my mother her bungalow, but also kept my sister’s kids at their private school when Katherine lost her real job.”

  “Not that you’re bitter.”

  “I’m not,” she protested. “Really I’m not. I just wish sometimes that people realized that writing is hard work, bloody hard work, and just as valid an occupation as approving loans and selling insurance.”

  “Jessica used to write. Poetry. She had a way with words; lots of dark imagery…lots of angst as well, but then I think that’s usual with teenage girls,” he said.

  “So she was a troubled teen.”

  “And then some.”

  It was obvious that, despite his protests, he wanted to speak about her. Beth pressed on. “Is that what you meant when you said she was away with the fairies?”

  “Partly that, but there was more. She started reading books about the occult. Weird stuff some of it. She got her hands on one book, and she insisted the book’s cover was made from human skin.” He shuddered. “And she started going into town and hanging around with some…well, some murky types. I rarely saw her once that started. She’d often skip school, and take herself into town during the day. I don’t know what she got up to but one of the girls in her year had seen her at a club, surrounded by a group of boys who were hanging on her every word and apparently she was reveling in the attention she was getting.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice, and he stared off across the lake.

  “You used to come here with her, didn’t you?”

  James said nothing, but nodded his head slowly.

  After another long and difficult silence he said, “I’m sorry. I know how it looks.”

  “It looks like you’re still in love with her,” Beth said.

  James’s gaze followed the flight of a dragonfly, flitting across the surface of the lake, a yard above the weeds.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Don’t be,” Beth said. “I understand the potency of first loves. Some of us never crawl out from under its spell.”

  “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve just done a lot of research on the subject. I think we should get back. I have a chapter that needs finishing.”

  Chapter Eight

  Back at the house she invited him in for a coffee, but he declined with a shake of his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve taken up far too much of your day.”

  “It’s not a problem,” she said. “It does me good to play truant once in a while. Perh
aps we could do this again?”

  “You want to?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. I’ve enjoyed it. Thank you for a lovely picnic.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Great,” she said, and watched him drive away, immediately feeling the emptiness of the house crawling up around her, smothering her with its silence and isolation.

  She came back inside, mentally shaking herself to dispel the negative thoughts.

  “Back to work,” she said, bullying herself.

  Armed with a fresh cup of coffee she went back to her office, woke up her computer and started to write.

  It was coming up to five o’clock when she stopped for the day. The chapter she’d been working on before the interruption was finished, and a new one started. She made another cup of coffee, and took it out to the veranda.

  Within minutes Teddy joined her. He hopped up onto her lap and, after a few moments of restless padding, curled himself into a ball and settled down. His gentle purring was soporific. She put down her mug, leaned back in her chair, and stared up at the clouds, her mind rerunning the conversation with James about Jessica Franklin.

  Poor girl. Beth could almost feel her isolation. Since the accident she knew what that feeling was like. People looking through her rather than at her. Literally talking over her head. Confinement took many forms.

  Initially it was fine: friends rallying round, offers of help and support. Strangely it was when she was well on the road to recovery that attitudes toward her changed. While she was bedridden she could be viewed sympathetically, but once she showed that she wasn’t a victim to be pampered and nursed, that she could get around in her chair, and even drive, sympathy evaporated. The same friends who had been so well meaning at the outset started to show resentment. Invitations to lunch and dinner dates dried up, and her telephone fell silent. It was as if being capable was somehow taboo.

  A few friends stayed loyal, Miranda for one, and two or three others but, after enjoying a busy, almost hectic, social life before the accident, Beth found herself suddenly set apart from it because of her ability to get on with life. It was a horrible and lonely feeling, and if Jessica Franklin had felt a tenth of that kind of isolation then Beth had every sympathy for her.