The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  “Let’s set up the carnival around the big oak tree,” Ruth calls out.

  Ramey carries the basket to the front porch. He is met there by a woman who resembles the white-haired lady in the bright red cardigan who followed me through the streets of Old Montreal.

  “Mommy,” Sammy says, running to meet me on the lawn, “help me nail the hoop to the tree for the basketball toss.”

  “No. Trees are living things.”

  “Then how do we attach it?”

  “Ask Rand’s dad to help you; he seems to have an answer for everything. And tell the children to search for the kitten I saw the night we stayed here. But be careful, animals can sometimes be vicious if you try to catch them when they are hungry and frightened.”

  “Okay,” Sam says, and runs to where Ramey stands on the patio.

  “Hey there,” Amanda calls out, “would you like to help us with our fortune-telling booth, Mrs. Brighton?”

  “How can I help you?” I ask as I approach the table at the base of the tree.

  “You can unload the box with our gypsy costumes and equipment,” Amanda says. She takes out a set of tarot cards, a mystic board, and a guide to palm reading, and tosses a shawl hemmed with bells around her shoulders.

  I cast a glance back to where Ramey and the elderly woman were conversing. He now leans against a rotting pillar, holding the basketball hoop and talking with Sammy.

  “You fancy him, don’t you Mrs. Brighton?”

  “He is my friend’s husband.” I turn away from her to unpack a cardboard box filled with flashy costume jewelry and feather boas.

  “I feel sorry for Mrs. Sandeley,” Amanda says, and places a crystal ball on an upright stand.

  “Let’s not gossip about your employer.”

  “A man that good-looking is a nightmare; he’s got women falling all over him wherever he goes.” She gazes into the ball.

  “You knew him when he was young, Mrs. Brighton?”

  “When he was younger.”

  “What was he like?”

  “A god,” I say, and remove a glass magic wand filled with glitter.

  “He’s still one, I’d say. I about wet my panties when I saw him in his swim trunks.”

  “Let’s change the subject, Amanda.”

  “I’m only human, Mrs. Brighton.”

  She lights a wooden match and holds it to a cone of incense in a ceramic cup.

  “Was his missus a shop girl? I heard Mrs. Sandeley was a sales clerk when they met.”

  “Ruth was working in a nice department store in the city, in the cosmetics department.”

  “She frightens me sometimes.”

  “Shame on you, Amanda, I told you—”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you’re friends, and I think you need to know how wacky things have been since Gabbie and I arrived.”

  “If it’s something important, I’m willing to listen. But I won’t stand for petty gossip.”

  “She’s got booze hidden all over the house—but that’s not all of it. My guess is she’s high on prescription meds. One minute she’s floating around like a fairy princess, the next she’s haggin’ or pissed off or sleepin’. And that son of hers, that Eggie boy, is a strange one. I caught him lookin’ in my window, the little perv.”

  Amanda admires her reflection in a bejeweled mirror.

  “Don’t tell Mrs. Sandeley I told you. I’m only trying to be helpful.”

  I pour a bag of fortune cookies into a glass jar and open one. The piece of paper inside says: The education of the will is the object of our existence. God knows what that means.

  “They had a terrible fight last week.”

  “Amanda, it’s not appropriate for you to discuss the private matters of your employers.”

  I throw the proverb away and take a bite of the stale cookie.

  “We both heard it, right Gabbie?”

  “She told me to fuck off when I walked in on them.”

  “Mrs. Sandeley was screaming about a woman. Mr. Sandeley told her she was crazy and was going to put her in a loony bin. Isn’t that right, Gabbie?”

  “She smacked him a good one,” Gabbie says.

  “Mr. Sandeley stormed out of the house and spent the night in the barn. Mrs. Sandeley didn’t come out of her room until late the next day. She was in her bathrobe and looked a mess, like she’d been crying all night. They didn’t talk for the next few days. In fact, I hadn’t heard them speak to each other until you arrived.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please,” Ruth calls out. “We are opening the celebration in honor of the summer solstice.” Rand blows on a plastic trumpet. “Let the fun begin!”

  “I’m going to visit with the other guests. Will you girls please be on the lookout for a tabby kitten? I encountered the starving creature the night we stayed on the island.”

  “I’ve rescued a number from the wild. If the critter is still alive, the crumbs will draw her into the open. Oh God, here come the piranhas,” Amanda exclaims as she turns to watch a swarm of children heading for the booth.

  I cross the lawn to where Luna stands in the shade under a bank of trees near the fire pit. The mid-day sun reveals the unnatural tautness of her skin and her teeth are a bit too white, but she looks stunning nonetheless, with wavy dark hair loose her to shoulders and a floral sundress that shows off milky skin and a slender figure.

  “Alexandra, I would like you to meet someone,” Luna says as I approach, and my white-haired stalker appears from out of the shadows. “This is Mondie, my sister, who resides in Montreal. She does not speak English.”

  “Bonjour,” Mondie says, and offers a tiny hand to shake.

  “Bonjour Mondie, comment allez vous aujoud’hue, H’ai di, J’ai peur que je parle tres peu francais,” I say.

  Mondie appears confused, like she has no idea what I said.

  “I believe I saw your sister in Montreal a few days ago, when I was shopping with Ruth in the old town.”

  “My sister loves to wonder around the city looking for people she finds intriguing.”

  “Interesting coincidence.” Luna returns my whimsical smile with a guarded one of her own.

  “Mondie, pourquoi ne pas vous visiter la table de nourriture. Je va participer dans un instant,” Luna says.

  Mondie turns away and scuttles along the grass, like a lawn gnome brought to life by a curious act of magic.

  “Luna, what do you know about the house? Why did Douggie Raye say it was cursed and the man who owned it evil?”

  “A dwelling should not have been built on the island. It is an Iroquois burial site. The natives receive wisdom from the souls who have crossed over, and the process is not complete until the bones have disintegrated. Desecration is a sacrilege. Mr. Schlotter’s price was his life. It is unfortunate the body was left to hang for so long. Ventilation or removal is essential for a soul’s transport.” Luna looks away and focuses her attention on raised voices coming from the patio.

  “Luna!” Mondie cries in a shrill voice, running towards us with red syrup drooling down her face.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” She removes a silk handkerchief from a dress pocket to dab perspiration from her forehead.

  “Monsieur Roger me de garder mes doigts de la cobber. Il slapped ma main—il est un monstre! je veux y aller. Je veux quitter cette maison horrible,” Mondie exclaims, and flaps her arms wildly as she runs across the grass.

  “I’m sure Roger did not mean to slap you on the hand when you tasted the cherry cobbler.” Luna wraps her sister in the folds of her dress.

  “Please excuse me, I need to check the grounds and inside the house for the pet Douggie Raye said was left stranded.”

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Alexandra. Come Mondie, my dear, I will serve you your lunch.” She turns and crosses the grass to where Roger stands with one hand poised on a hip and the other flicking his wrist, motioning for their return.

  I search for the abandoned kitten in a
n overgrowth of parched bushes and thick ivy that have grown up the side of the house, nearly covering the wooden shingles. At the back, I open a ripped screen door and step inside the kitchen. Moving to the corner alcove, I find that the bowl filled with milk and banana bread I left on the table has been licked clean.

  “Here kitty-kitty,” I call out while moving to the living room. Nothing has changed here. The rosy-cheeked pig still eats from his trough and the grand piano awaits the stroke of its ivory keys. I watch my distorted reflection in the gilded mirror cross the parlor and turn into the stairwell.

  I continue calling for the kitten while moving down the corridor, stepping through tiny shards of glass from the shattered bulb that rained on me the night of my arrival. I scan the deserted children’s rooms as I move to the master bedroom. It is stuffy and still and looks as I left it. I check inside the closet and under the bed. The top of the old steamer trunk I wedged into the corner is partly ajar, and what look like old photographs jut from the opening. I kneel down to open the lid, and piles of memorabilia slide to the floor.

  On top is a picture of a baby, identified on the back as Egan Schlotter. Sifting through dozens of images, I move from black-and-white to faded color—and a panorama of Mr. Schlotter’s life unfolds. The day of his wedding shows a striking young man with a square jaw, wavy light hair and an athlete’s body. He stands proudly next to a woman draped in ivory silk, a fair-haired beauty, a prize. Four children are born to the couple. A print shows the family gathered around the piano. His wife plays and Mr. Schlotter, who wears the accordion around his neck, looks very proud of his beautiful family. Snapshots of Christmas show a bushy tree, where the gilded mirror now stands, heaped with presents and decorated with strands of tinsel and festive lights. A little girl holds up a doll while a young boy in a cowboy getup points a revolver at the camera.

  The images are faded, but still pristine in their own way. They are a happy family, enjoying celebrations and carefree days on the lake. God willing, the days will last forever. But they end. A crumpled photograph of Egan, his wife, and their children posed in front of the old oak tree is marked, Our Last Easter. Beneath it is a rough drawing of an old man stabbing himself through the heart, signed Egan Schlotter.

  At the bottom of the chest, amongst engraved jewelry and random mementoes, is an etched silver box the size of a large book. It contains an item wrapped in brittle parchment and tied with a string. I carefully untie the package. Inside I find a musty red wool armband with a winged cross on a double hexagram of fine black cloth stitched on a white silk disk.

  “Mrs. Brighton, are you in here?” Amanda shouts from downstairs.

  “Upstairs.”

  “The children are looking for you; they need you to help them with The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I return the articles to the trunk and depart the house.

  Hordes of gnats and dragonflies play along the trail. Through the foliage, I watch a family of ducks swim near the shore, causing it to ripple and catch a glimmer of the late-day sun. At the end of the pathway I observe Ramey, Roger and a few of the men from the club tossing pieces of kindling into the fire pit. I have no interest in an encounter with them, so I turn in the opposite direction and move around the back of the house.

  Near the water, lovely wildflowers grow amidst the weeds. I venture away from the pathway to pick a handful. As I make my way back I hear a rustling sound from a tree above, a thud as though someone has fallen to the ground, footsteps racing behind me, and I am grabbed around the waist. I let out a gasp, shocked by the sudden embrace, both enflamed and aggravated by this bold advance, another of Ramey’s flagrant indiscretions. But when I turn around I am startling to see that the man who holds me in his arms is André Labat—dressed in black and wearing a silver dusted mask.

  “André, what are you doing here? I have to get back. They’re waiting for me at the celebration.” He twirls me around to bestow a passionate kiss.

  “Why are you not wearing the mask I gave you before you left me the other night?”

  “No one else is wearing one; I would look silly.”

  “Do I appear that way to you?”

  “You are enticing beyond words.”

  “Come with me,” he tells me, and draws me into the deep overgrowth to a dilapidated shed nearly hidden in the foliage.

  “The celebration is about to begin. Sammy is waiting for me.”

  He struggles with a rusty ladder he has lifted from the ground. “The door is locked, but we can slide through the upper window and no one will find us.”

  “You must leave the island,” I say, as I hear my name being called. I step from the shadows to view Amanda running down the trail. She wears a beaded gypsy wrap around her head and dozens of sparkling necklaces swing across her bosom as her short legs pump.

  “Do you still plan to meet me tomorrow at sunset for our farewell dinner?” André asks.

  “Of course.”

  “I will wait here a while in case you can get away,” he says and slips behind the structure.

  “It’s Mrs. Sandeley. She’s three sheets, as they say, and jabbering to the ladies about her alterations,” Amanda says as I join her on the path.

  “Alterations?”

  “Cosmetic. I wish she’d knock off for a nap, but she won’t enter the house.”

  “I’ll check on her once I’ve spoken with Sammy.”

  “Mommy, you missed most of the carnival,” Sammy says as I move to where they are preparing for the performance.

  “Did you have fun?” I ask and lean down to kiss his sunburned nose.

  “Darling, what happened to your eye?”

  “Baby threw an apple at me from the bob. Gabbie iced it; it doesn’t hurt. They’re starting the sugar plum fairy parade. I don’t want to dance,” Sam says.

  “Me either. It’s stupid.” Rand chimes in.

  “You can be the soldiers who guard the fairy candy kingdom, unless you’d rather be chocolate bars. Amanda will help you find something you like.”

  Someone brushes against my back as I lean down to open a costume box. I turn to see Eggie’s face peering over my shoulder. “Eggie, you can be a peppermint,” I say and give him a piece of pink and white fabric. He tears the cloth from my hand and twirls in circles, wrapping the cloth around his body.

  “Stop it, Eggie!” Amanda grabs the material from the boy, but he continues to spin.

  “I’m singing the song, The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” Gabrielle announces. “The sun is setting. Finish getting dressed, children, and follow me.”

  I take a camera from a crate and move across the grass, away from the guests who have congregated to watch the show. There is a spot with a clear view near the bonfire.

  “It’s time for the performance to begin. Take your places,” Lizzie yells out as she clangs a brass cowbell overhead.

  The wail of a lute issues from behind the bushes where the children are congregated. Gabbie stumbles out first, singing a cheerful melody, and tripping on the hem of her dress as she struggles to keep a daisy wreath balanced on her head. Amanda leaps forward next in flowing chiffon, shaking a tambourine in one hand and a beer bottle filled with beans in the other. They are followed by hearty gales of laughter, and the children spill onto the grass. Lizzie, who is dressed as a ballerina, walks to the center of the circle, bows to the crowd, and begins to pirouette and leap, as the children dance madly around her.

  “The Nutcracker—I hate that fuckin’ ballet,” Ramey says as he comes up from behind me.

  I raise the camera to take pictures of the children dancing.

  “Why are you smiling, is there an inside joke?”

  He lightly touches my arm while moving next to me. The fiery sun reflects the coppery highlights in his hair and gives his tanned skin a ruddy glow. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt smudged with ash and long khaki shorts, he looks both boyish and manly, and cruelly handsome.

  “It’s suppos
ed to be performed around the winter solstice, when we first met,” Ramey says, with a kindness in his eyes I have not seen since I arrived.

  “I dreamt about it last night.”

  “Did you arrive alone in the dream?”

  “I walked up to a house built into a bluff at the edge of the desert. Hundreds of votives were set in the snow. When I reached the house, you were waiting for me at the door. You told me you had placed the candles there, so I could find my way home.”

  “Was Mozart playing?”

  “I didn’t walk in.”

  “Did you enjoy Georgie’s concert?”

  I turn away from him to zoom in on Rand and Sammy, who are engaged in a swordfight.

  “A gaudy spectacle, eh?”

  “Your cousin is a remarkable showman; he has a brilliant theatrical flare.”

  “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “Who says I slept?”

  “But you said you dreamt.”

  “It was at dawn.”

  “Well, you’re lucky the asshole didn’t find you. He still had a hornet up his ass when he called this morning. He accused me of setting it up; he thought we had conspired for you to ditch him. He told me his henchmen caught your scent and followed you to Oscar’s. He greeted Georgie with an open robe and an offer to suck his dick if he desired entry into the auberge.”

  “It’s unfortunate Georgie is protected from the public, but the public isn’t protected from him.”

  I turn away to take a series of shots of the children, who have torn off their costumes and are running through the grass waving them like banners.

  “Did you take comfort from Oscar’s driver, Daniel?”

  “No comment.”

  “Alexandra, about the other night—I was really plowed. I’m sorry about what happened, how I treated you.” He looks sheepish and penitent, but I am no fool.

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “You’re right; it’s better to let go of the past.”

  A somber silence descends between us and I lower my camera to turn and face him.

  “May I take a picture of you?”

  “You can take a shot of me, as long as we’re together.”

  “You don’t pose alone?”