by Orly Konig
So if it wasn’t him, who could it have been?
Who else can I talk to about this? Grandma was my go-to person. She was the one I went to when the girls at school teased me for my “baby boobs,” and she’d taken me to buy my first bra. She was the one I went to when I had my first period, and she’d walked me into the drugstore for my first box of pads. Mom was never there for such things. She was always busy being perfect. And I wasn’t perfect by any pretzeling of the imagination.
I tap Vale’s name on my phone but get his voicemail. I try Sam, but she doesn’t answer either.
I pull a chair closer and sit. Now I’m eye-to-belly with the horse and the mystery inscription.
For Meera. Forever.
What story would Grandma weave? She was brilliant at making up stories when I was young. I’d name an object, and she’d spin an amazing tale. Even when I lacked the creativity to find a new subject, her imagination never faltered. Each story was unique. And magical.
I indulge a pout as I return the horse to the middle of the studio. I miss those stories. I’d fantasized about the three of us—Grandma, me, my baby—curled up, laughing, and lost in the magic.
I stand and return to the table, but my mind can’t settle into work mode. I try Vale again, but the call again goes immediately into voicemail.
There has to be someone out there. I know who’s out there, but I’m not calling her. Mom and I never did agree on anything Grandma said or did. I accused her once of being jealous. I’d expected to be grounded, waited for the wrath of my mom, but she’d only looked at me, then turned and walked away, leaving me to swallow the unsavory stew of guilt for hurting her feelings, and adolescent smugness for delivering a direct hit.
I call my brother. He picks up on the third ring.
“Hey, little sis. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”
“Can’t I just call my brother?” I try for a light, breezy tone.
He laughs. “Of course. And yet you rarely do.”
He’s right. Even though we’re close in age, we’ve never been that close.
After a too-long pause on my end, Thomas prods, “So? What’s going on? Vale said you were more obsessed than usual with your wood friend.”
“He said that?” My voice squeaks in surprise. Vale teases me for talking to my charges, but he’s also been my biggest supporter. Biggest after Grandma.
“Nah, those are my words. He just said you’re working too hard.”
“Oh. I’m not obsessed.” I hear the childish pout in my voice. Even as an adult, my brother manages to bring out the little kid in me.
“So, Maya, why did you call?”
I take in oxygen reinforcement. I called him to talk and now I’m wishing I hadn’t. But I did, so … Talk, Maya. Tell him. “I found something on the carousel horse that’s wigging me out. You know the horse Grandma and I both loved so much?”
“Ummm.” I hear typing, and the slightly muffled response tells me he has me wedged between his shoulder and ear. My time is running out.
“There’s an inscription in his belly made out to Grandma,” I rattle forward, hoping to regain his attention and a smidgen of enthusiasm.
“Graffiti?” It’s half question, half dismissal.
“No, it’s deliberate.”
“So?”
“So this is huge.” I bite back frustration. Why had I expected more from him? He’s just like Mom.
“Why?”
“Seriously? Come on, Thomas. This isn’t Grandpa’s style.”
“Your point?” The background typing starts up again.
I tighten my hold on the phone, wishing the pressure would somehow transfer through the line and strangle my brother. “My point is…” I swallow hard, the sound echoing in my ears. What is my point? “Oh forget it. Why did I think you’d understand anyway?”
“Typical response. Why don’t you ask Mom?”
“You think she’d know?”
“Probably not.”
“So why suggest it?”
He sucks in a dose of patience. “I got nothing, Maya. I don’t want to fight with you, and I really need to get back to work. Maybe Mom remembers a story Grandma once told her, or knows someone who remembers when the carousel was built. She has tons of old-people connections.”
“Now that is brilliant.”
“Hello? Helloooooooo? Who is this? Can you please put my sister back on the line?”
“Ha, ha. Seriously, I give credit where it’s due. That’s a brilliant suggestion, Thomas. Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
We hang up, and for a brief hiccup of a moment, I wonder if he was wishing me luck in finding someone who can answer my questions, or luck in dealing with my mother. I inhale, exhale, inhale, and tap Mom’s name in my phone directory.
“Hello, Maya.” Mom’s formal tone is a sharp reprimand for blowing off the reception yesterday. Well, that’s probably not exactly true. It’s a sharp reprimand for pretty much everything I’ve ever done in my life.
“Hi, Mom.” I can’t bring myself to apologize, and idle chitchat doesn’t suit us. “Did Grandma ever talk to you about the old merry-go-round?”
I hear something suspiciously similar to a snort. “The merry-go-round? Really, Maya. When did you ever know me to take an interest in that thing?”
That thing.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Do you know anyone who lived here during the time it was built who I could talk to?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“What about the builder? He was local. Do you know if anyone from his family still lives in town?”
“Why would I know this?”
“You’re on the city arts committee?” I try to change the sarcasm into an ego stroke.
It doesn’t take.
“Arts committee. Paintings. Photographs. I don’t know anything about the carousel.”
I want to argue that historical carousels are considered art, that collectors pay a heavy bag of coins for well-restored animals, that there are museums dedicated to carousels. But I don’t.
“Thanks for your help, Mom.” I don’t try to check the edge in my voice. There’s no point.
“Always a pleasure, Maya.” She doesn’t try to check the disapproval in her voice. There’s no point there either.
Now what?
I turn on my laptop and, while it powers up, flip through the pages in my project notebook until I get to the section on the origins of the carousel. H Creations is the company on record. In addition to the official documents from the historical society, I’ve included a few old newspaper articles. Hank Hauser was the mastermind and master-hand. A picture in one of the articles catches my eye—a young man stands proudly next to the merry-go-round, holding one end of a banner that reads “Grand Opening.” The other end is in the hands of then mayor of Kent, Alfred Tate, according to the caption. I squint at the faded photocopy of the article, hoping a hint will jump out.
For as much as Grandma talked about the carousel, she didn’t say much about Hank. She’d said they were friends. Passing friends, whatever that meant. She’d said he moved away a couple of years after the carousel was completed and that she didn’t know what had become of him.
I type “H Creations” into a search engine, but the results are too varied. I add Kent, Delaware, and find more of what I already know. I change the search to Hank Hauser, Kent, Delaware. There’s a nice write-up on the man behind the merry-go-round, a wedding notice, a few more articles about other installations he built. But nothing current and no obituary. It’s as though the man moved to another planet.
I turn back to the carousel. For Meera. Forever. Who would have done that? And why?
Five
The Audi is parked in the driveway, but I don’t remember hearing Vale return. Seeing the car gives me an extra bounce as I make my way to the house. He always has good advice; he can help me piece this together.
The sharp crack of metal hitting ceramic stops me at the
door. Another crack and the vibrating clang of metal on metal, followed by a string of curse words, propels me forward.
“Vale?” I trot up the stairs and come to a dead stop at the entrance to the bathroom. “Whoa, what happened here?”
He flicks an annoyed glance in my direction and slams the hammer into a tile next to the sink. It cracks and shoots slivers at him in protest.
“Want to tell me why you’re destroying the bathroom?” I try again.
“There’s a leak,” he says between gritted teeth, slamming the hammer into another row of tiles.
“So you decided to demolish the entire bathroom?” The tank has been removed from the toilet and the tiles behind it have already been torn from the wall. There’s a jagged line of damaged drywall and stubborn tiles running to the base of the pedestal sink. A mosaic covers the floor in a wide arc around Vale.
“Would you rather have it leak into the kitchen?” He yanks at a tile that clings to the drywall like a frightened child clinging to its mother’s leg.
“Okaaaay.” I use a proceed-with-caution tone. “So what’s the game plan?” I take a hesitant step into the bathroom, careful not to step on ceramic shards or cracked nerves.
Vale releases an exaggerated sigh and twists to face me. His right hand flips the hammer around while his left hand pushes a flop of hair out of his eyes. “The game plan? Fix it.” His gaze flicks over my face before turning around.
Last night’s stalemate slams into my chest, shoving the inscription into the irrelevant-topic pile.
“Vale…” I shift my weight, unsure what to say next, or what to do. There’s a crunch of a tile under my heel. Vale’s body tightens at the sound, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he resumes his pounding.
I should offer to help, a sort of olive branch with a wrench.
The idea is chased away by a muffled string of curse words and a shattering of tiles.
I back step until I’m in the doorway. The pounding stops and the dusty air hangs heavy with the words we both want to say but can’t.
Olive branch, Maya.
“Can I help?”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you, though.”
“Do you want to see if George has time to help? I can give him a call.”
“No. Thank you, though.”
Snap goes the olive branch.
“This looks like it’s going to be a big project. You don’t have time for this.” I try to sound encouraging, supportive.
“I took the week off.”
“Why?” The word ricochets off the tiles, an accusation more than a question.
“I need time to think. And the bathroom needs to be fixed.” He nods, apparently agreeing with his assessment of the situation.
“Think? About staying? About us?”
“Yeah.” His voice is barely more than a whisper. He sounds tired, almost defeated, and I feel a twinge of dread grabbing at my throat. He turns and looks at me, really looks at me, like he hasn’t seen me in a long time. He studies my face, makes eye contact.
There are new lines at the corners of his eyes, and the mischievousness that usually sparkles in the deep brown is missing. I blink at the few gray hairs that dance over his left ear as he moves his head. When did those happen?
I take a half step forward. “Vale,” I start, but my mouth clamps shut as he shakes his head.
“Not now, Maya.”
I retreat half a step. We’ve defaulted to “not now” as the standard answer for any uncomfortable discussion or feeling. It won’t fix us, it won’t make things right, but neither one of us knows how to break the “not now.”
I retreat another half step. “Do you need the car?” The instinct to escape claws at my insides.
He scans my face, his jaw moving left then right, and I wonder if he’s going to change his mind, accept my help, agree to talk.
He doesn’t. “No. But we’ll need to go the bathroom-and-tile store later.” He picks up a shard of a green porcelain. “Unless you’d rather stop on your way home?” It’s an innocent question on the surface.
I hesitate for a skip too long. Vale’s lips pull tight, and he turns back to the demolition, leaving me, once again, off balance.
Renovating the house was supposed to be our project—together, as a couple. We’d spent the first night in this house moving from room to room, plotting the demise of certain walls, planning the renovation of others. In our heads, we had the entire house remodeled and looking sharp.
Then reality kicked in. Vale got busy with designs for turning an abandoned convenience store into a modern new restaurant, and I won the contract for the carousel restoration. Instead of fixing up our own run-down piece of the world, we both threw ourselves into bringing new life to other run-down places.
Until fifteen months ago, when we started redecorating the extra bedroom. Suddenly, all of the dreams we’d discussed seemed within reach and the excitement to make this house really ours was reignited. We spent hours on the floor of that room talking about how to paint it, what furniture it needed, what window coverings would be best. Even the house seemed to catch the mood. Steps didn’t creak as loud, faucets didn’t drip all night, and the latch on the screen porch started latching again.
For four glorious months we schlepped old furniture out and shopped for new, we peeled moldy wallpaper and painted fresh colors on the walls and ceiling.
“Can we go together?” I ask over the pounding.
He nods. Or at least I think that’s a nod.
Maybe that will be the seed to the olive tree.
Six
Today my car is the only one navigating the narrow roads of the cemetery. I ease to a stop next to the willow tree, even though there’s plenty of room closer.
The breeze tugs, and I allow it to guide me closer to the edge of the cliff and the vast view to the horizon. The sun pirouettes off diamond sparkles as the waves roll into each other. The wind stills, dropping a suffocating stillness around me.
I breathe in the salty air, then turn. The air punches out of my lungs at the sight of the gray marble, Grandma’s name etched in black. Around the base are the stones visitors placed yesterday during the ceremony. Everyone except me.
Yesterday was for them, for the formality. Today, it’s me and her. Today, I don’t have to share her with anyone.
I pick up a flat, oval stone by my feet and smooth it between my thumb and index finger. A fluttering pulls me forward. Tucked under a large stone is an envelope.
I cross my ankles and lower until I’m sitting face-to-letters with Grandma’s name. I trap my shaking hands between my butt and the soft grass.
Twenty-six stones of varying shapes and sizes and colors rest around the headstone. I stare at the collection, wondering who placed each stone and what words they whispered in parting.
The envelope jitters as the breeze picks up. Who would leave a letter on a grave?
I shift left, releasing my right hand from captivity. I flick at the corner of the envelope. Is it wrong to open it? What if the person who left it wants it to be read? But what if it’s private?
I roll the stone gently with the tips of my fingers. It’s not like Grandma will be reading it, so what’s the harm? The stone thuds over, exposing the one word on the front of the envelope. Meera.
Curious, I slip the envelope loose, slide a finger behind the triangular back flap and pull the folded paper out, afraid that if I blink it’ll disappear like the last leaf in a winter wind.
My dearest Meera,
It seems we were just sharing stories. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss you. I wait for the day we’re together again. I suspect it won’t be long now. And this time, forever.
Yours, H.
The pounding of my heart echoes in my ears. The carving in the horse flashes through my mind.
For Meera. Forever.
Forever.
I read the letter again, my attention jerking between the paper in my hand and the marble headstone in front of me.
“Grandma? What secrets were you hiding?” I don’t, of course, get an answer.
The air around me is so still I can hear a blade of grass groan under the weight of a caterpillar.
Why didn’t H sign his name? I flip the paper over, hoping there’s more. The only thing there is an embossed logo, upside down. Whoever H is, he was either in a hurry or absentminded. I twist my head before my senses catch up, and I turn the paper instead.
“Tower Oaks?”
Tower Oaks is the retirement community on the other side of town. Grandma never mentioned visiting anyone there. I try to think back to yesterday. Was the shuttle bus from Tower Oaks here during the service? Could H have been right here, and I didn’t know it?
* * *
I pull into a visitor parking spot at Tower Oaks. A hunched lady shuffles past, moving her walker a quarter-inch at a time while a nurse walks patiently beside her. By the entrance, a younger old man sits on the bench reading a book. From a balcony two stories up drift the tormented sounds of a daytime soap opera
It’s been over a year since Simon moved back to town. Grandma mentioned running into him and that he told her he’d taken a job at Tower Oaks. She’d obviously omitted the fact that she ran into him at Tower Oaks.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
After she told me he was back, I’d look for him everywhere. My heart would stutter any time I saw someone who resembled him. But it was never him. I thought I saw him walking through the grocery store shortly after he returned, but I was with Vale and pregnant. Not exactly the ideal chase-down-your-ex scenario. My future was next to me and inside me, not in the produce section.
Since that sighting, nothing. As though he weren’t living in the same town at all. Or, more likely, as though he were avoiding me.
I get out of the car and slam the door harder than necessary. How could she have kept something so huge from me? I walk past the old lady and her nurse, ignoring their stares.
