Widow's Tears

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Nothing. Just standing there, looking off toward the east.” Claire was twisting her wedding ring again. “The wind was blowing her skirt, and her long hair kept coming loose and getting in her eyes. I got the idea that she was waiting for something, and that she was frightened, or at least apprehensive.”

  “How? I mean, how did you get that idea?”

  “I really don’t…I don’t know.” The question seemed to puzzle Claire. “It was—it must have been something in her posture. I think she was worried because something was coming. Something very bad, and there was nothing she could do about it. Anyway, I just kept on watching, for two, maybe three minutes. Then I heard somebody driving down the hill and I glanced in that direction. It was Sam in his old green pickup truck, coming back with the groceries from town. When I looked back at the house, she was gone.”

  Ruby felt no surprise. “Just…gone? No theatrics, no crash-bam-boom?”

  Claire nodded. Her brown eyes were very large in her pale, heart-shaped face. “But here’s the thing, Ruby. There’s no way to get up to the widow’s walk now, or to get down. There used to be a ladder and a trapdoor on the third floor, and when I was a kid, my mother would take me up there sometimes. She always held tight to my hand, which was good, because it’s high—almost forty feet off the ground—and the slate roof is steep. But after Aunt Hazel died and Mr. Hoover took over the management of the house, he had the ladder taken away and the trapdoor nailed shut. He told me he had been thinking of renting the place to summer visitors, and he didn’t want any little kids playing Superman off the roof.” She stopped twisting her ring and flexed her fingers. “I looked, Ruby. That trapdoor is still nailed shut.”

  Ruby took a breath. “So you went to the phone and called me.” She frowned. “No, you couldn’t have done that, because there’s no phone in the house. Right?”

  “Right.” She looked uncomfortable. “This is going to sound pretty silly, but the truth is that I was…well, the only way I can say it is that I got a message to call you.”

  “A message?” Ruby asked in surprise. “Who?”

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know who. It just…it just popped into my head when I was coming downstairs from checking the trapdoor. Call Ruby. And then, as if there might be some mistake, Call Ruby Wilcox. But when I thought about it, I realized that it was exactly the right thing to do, not just because you’re my oldest friend, but because you saw her. You saw her first. So I got in the car and drove out to the county road, where I got a signal. I could have texted you, probably, but I thought this was way too complicated for that.” Now, Claire’s words were tumbling out in a breathless rush. “This whole thing is so wild, Ruby—I mean, really bizarre. The house itself is bad enough, the crazy, crooked way it was cobbled together in the first place, as if Mrs. Blackwood was making it up as she went along. And there’s the wind and the weird weather that seems to happen here and nowhere else. And on top of that, there’s this ghost or poltergeist or whatever she is, and I’m at a loss to—”

  “Poltergeist?” Ruby interrupted. “Have there…have you seen or heard anything else? Besides the woman, I mean?”

  Claire’s glance slid away. “Actually, yes. I’ve heard…” Her voice trailed off. “But maybe you won’t…”

  “Try me,” Ruby said. “What’s going on?”

  “I wish I knew.” Claire’s voice was dry and scratchy. “But since you ask, well, yes, I’ve heard a few things. There’s a harp in the music room, I’ve heard that—no melody, just a faint jangle, like fingers running across the strings. A foghorn, distinct but far away—and of course, the closest foghorn is over on the Gulf coast. The wind whistling in the eaves, even when there’s not a breath of a breeze.” She cast an apprehensive glance at the pans hanging from the rack over the worktable. “Those pans rattling. A bell tinkling, a ball bouncing, a window breaking. A woman crying—weeping as if her heart would break. The sound of dripping, like a faucet. I’ve seen some things, too. Puddles in the downstairs hallway and water stains in the third-floor ceilings that seem to come and go—”

  “Water stains?”

  Claire spoke quickly, as if she’d been saving all this and was glad to get it said. “And sometimes there are odors. Cherry pipe smoke. Violet perfume. The smell of chocolate cake baking.”

  “Jeepers,” Ruby said quietly.

  “Yeah. Jeepers. Jeepers creepers.” Claire pushed out a ragged breath. “It’s like…it’s like the house is inhabited, Ruby. What I’m hearing is just the daily stuff going on, people moving around, leading their lives, somebody doing things in the kitchen, children out in the yard. Except it’s not. Not inhabited by anybody else but me. I’m the only one here.” She rubbed her hand across her face. “I don’t make noises, or smoke cherry tobacco, and I haven’t baked a chocolate cake since Brad died.”

  Since Brad died. Briefly, Ruby wondered whether this might be psychosomatic, whether it had something to do with Claire’s grief. “The weeping,” she asked. “Does that happen often?”

  Claire nodded. “At night, mostly.” Her voice was unsteady. “It’s…heartbreaking.”

  “And scary, I guess. All of it, I mean,” Ruby added. “Not just the crying.”

  Claire considered. “Well, in the beginning, I thought it was my imagination.” A wry smile ghosted across her mouth. “After all, I just spent several months in rehab, drying out. For the first few days, I thought maybe it was something like delirium without the tremens. But then I got involved in trying to chase down the sources of the sounds and the other stuff. That turned out to be pretty unproductive, but at least it kept me busy.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “But the crying—that happens at night. And yes, it’s scary. It starts off slow, somewhere in the distance, just one voice, a woman’s voice. And then it builds, and in the end, it’s as if…Ruby, it’s as if it’s coming from everywhere. From the walls, the floors, from the whole house. It’s as if the house is weeping.”

  Ruby covered Claire’s hands with her own. They were very cold and the fingers were trembling. “It sounds frightening,” she said quietly.

  Claire nodded, trying on another smile. “I’m not saying there’s anything malicious or evil about this,” she said earnestly. “It doesn’t feel like that, really. The worst is the crying at night, and in the daytime, it’s the sound of glass breaking, which is always so real that I have to go around and check all the windows. Oh, and there are the puddles on the floor. When I’m down on my knees wiping up, I go a little crazy trying to figure out how they got there.” She reclaimed her hands. “But most of it is just like…well, everyday life, like maybe a noisy family living in the duplex next door—except that there’s no duplex next door, and no family. And there never was, ever. So far as I know, the only people who have ever lived here are two little old ladies. The woman who built this crazy old house, and my great-aunt.”

  “Just two old ladies, in this great big house?” Ruby frowned, thinking that Claire had mentioned a row of graves. If only two people had ever lived here, who was buried in the graveyard? Who? Her skin prickled and she began to feel shimmery, as if—

  “I know how idiotic this sounds,” Claire said. “But since you saw her when you were a kid, I figured you would believe me. At least, I hoped you’d believe me.” She swallowed. “You do, don’t you, Ruby?” When Ruby didn’t answer right away, she put out her hand with a pleading look. “Please say you don’t think I’m nuts. Tell me that this house really is haunted—that there’s a ghost here, and that I’m not imagining all this crazy stuff.”

  Ruby’s energy shield came up and the shimmering faded. She took a deep breath. “No, of course I don’t. I believe you, Claire. In fact, I saw her myself, just this morning.”

  “You did?” Claire cried. “Oh, Ruby, that’s wonderful!”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Ruby said cautiously, and told Claire about stopping on the hill and looking down at the house and seeing the woman in the shirtwaist and skirt, carryi
ng the basket of white roses.

  “And then Sam showed up,” she concluded, “and when I looked back, the woman was gone.”

  There was a crooked man

  Ruby frowned. Why couldn’t she get that silly nursery rhyme out of her mind? It kept repeating itself like a broken record.

  “Good old Sam,” Claire’s laugh was brittle. “He seems to appear at just the right time, doesn’t he? Or the wrong time, depending on how you look at it.”

  found a crooked sixpence

  Claire looked at Ruby, half-tilting her head. “But I’m really glad you saw her—again, I mean. This morning. It means you didn’t imagine her the first time. And I didn’t imagine her, either.”

  Ruby tried to laugh. “But maybe we’re both imagining it, Claire, then and now. You know—the power of suggestion.”

  Claire shook her head. “I know what I saw. And what you saw. And what I’ve heard.” She leaned forward, her voice becoming quietly insistent. “I hope I haven’t scared you, Ruby. I don’t want to chase you away. I need you. Say you’ll stay and help me. Please. Please.”

  Ruby thought of her suitcase, still in the car, her car keys in her purse, little Grace with a sore throat, the shop and the tearoom that Ramona wanted to buy, and her other obligations. She pressed her lips together. She understood Claire’s need, and she was sorry that all this was happening. But she was in way over her head here, and she was…she was scared. She had no business trying to deal with this situation. She should just go home. She glanced at her watch. If she left now, she’d be back at the shop before closing time.

  She was opening her mouth to explain to Claire why she had to leave when the cell phone in her bag began to buzz. Then it swung into the first few bars of the old Buddy Holly song, “Raining in My Heart,” Colin’s favorite. He had downloaded it to her phone and she’d never changed it.

  “Hey,” she said, picking up her purse and fishing around for her cell. “I thought you said we couldn’t get a signal here.”

  “Sometimes the magic works,” Claire said with a shrug. “If it’s a text, you might get it.”

  Ruby found her phone and flipped it open. That’s what it was, all right. A text message. From China.

  “Oh no!” she muttered, reading it, then reading it again. “Oh no!”

  Claire frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just about everything,” Ruby replied distractedly, and read the message for the third time.

  Ramona says Doris escaped. Hark says watch for TS Amanda. Amy says Grace needs tonsils out. Tonight. But we can handle. Stay where you are. Don’t come home.

  Chapter Five

  The genus name Iris is derived from the Greek word for rainbow, referring to the wide variety of flower colors. In Greek mythology, Iris was the messenger of the gods and is usually depicted as descending from her home in the rainbow.

  The rhizomes of three species of iris (I. germanica, I. florentina, and I. pallida) are known as orris and are prized in perfumery for their violet scent and their ability to fix other scents. The Egyptians and Greeks used orris to treat chest complaints. Pieces of the root were strung and worn around the neck as a protective charm—later, as rosary beads. In aromatherapy, essential oil of iris is used to soothe and calm. And in wetland management, I. pseudacorus (yellow iris) is being planted to purify water. The rhizomes are capable of consuming large amounts of E. coli and Salmonella bacteria, as well as excess nitrate from agricultural runoff.

  In the language of flowers, the iris represented “I have a message for you.” A blue iris flower symbolized the messenger, a red flower suggested a passionate message, and a yellow flower might be read in one of two ways: as representing cheer and warm feeling or deceit and cowardice.

  China Bayles

  “Herbs and Flowers That Tell a Story”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  After I saw Ruby off, the day turned into a busy one at Thyme and Seasons. Dawn was on the job, capably handling the Crystal Cave and the largish lunch crowd in the tearoom, where Cass had outdone herself with the food. (It’s no wonder that the Pecan Springs Enterprise recently gave Cass a full-page feature, which has resulted in more lunch traffic and several more regular customers for the Thymely Gourmet.) Our guests could choose between Tomato Quiche with Basil and Green Onions, served with a cup of Spring Green Bisque; or a bowl of hearty Two-Bean Soup with Herbs, served with chunks of hot Garden-Style Cornbread. Both entrées came with Ruby’s Romaine Salad and Orange-Ginger Dressing. And for dessert, there was Rose-Geranium Pound Cake with White Chocolate Glaze. Next time you’re in Pecan Springs, stop in and see what’s on the menu. Cass is always coming up with something different and delicious.

  There’s usually plenty of traffic in the early afternoon, when the lunch crowd migrates into the shops and the surrounding gardens. Thyme and Seasons and the Cave are situated in a 120-year-old building I bought when I cashed in my retirement account. It was built of native stone by the German stonemasons who constructed most of the early buildings here in Pecan Springs, as well as in the neighboring towns of San Marcos, New Braunfels, and Fredericksburg. All four were settled some 160 years ago by German immigrants who’d endured the long, miserable ocean voyage to Texas because the Old World was wall-to-wall people and Texas is (or was then, or at least seemed to be) a wide-open new world with room for all, if you could stand the heat. When you visit Pecan Springs, take some time to admire the vernacular German-influenced architecture. It’s different from the Spanish hacienda style that’s become a cliché in South Texas—and very special.

  The Crystal Cave takes up half of the front of the building, the tearoom is in back, and Thyme and Seasons takes up the other front half. The hand-cut limestone walls, well-worn wooden floor, and beamed ceiling are a picture-perfect setting for the antique hutches and wooden shelves that I stock with herbal vinegars, oils, jellies, and teas. The old pine cupboard in the corner displays personal-care products: herbal soaps, shampoos, massage oils, fragrances, bath herbs. In the middle of the room, a wooden rack is filled with gallon jars of dried culinary and medicinal herbs, along with bottles of extracts and tinctures and aromatherapy products. There’s a four-tiered bookshelf, as well as stationery and cards and gift baskets. Look around and you’ll see that the walls are hung with seasonal wreaths and swags. There are buckets of fragrant potpourri in the corners, as well as tall stalks of dried sunflowers bound with cheerful yellow ribbon and woven baskets of artemisia, larkspur, yarrow, and tansy for dried arrangements.

  When you go out the front door, turn left and follow the path around the corner. There you’ll find racks of herbs for sale in six-inch and one- and two-gallon pots—all the usual culinary herbs (parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, bay, chives), plus a good selection of medicinal and native plants. Follow the path, and it will take you through the theme gardens: the kitchen garden, the fragrance garden, the apothecary garden, the zodiac garden, and the dyers garden (the coreopsis is in bloom right now—the flowers yield a yellow, orange, or brown dye, depending on the mordant you use). Keep going and you’ll find your way to the cottage where Kathleen Gips led her Language-of-Flowers workshop the week before.

  Thyme Cottage began life, back in the horse-and-buggy days, as a stone stable. But the previous owner, an architect, reincarnated the building (by then a garage) as a lovely one-bedroom guesthouse with a fireplace, a built-in kitchen, and a hot tub in its own private patio garden. Ruby and Cass and I schedule workshops there, since the main room—we call it the Gathering Room—is large enough to accommodate a crowd, and the open-plan kitchen is ideal for cooking and crafting demonstrations. When there’s no workshop on the calendar, the cottage is available as a guesthouse, which I advertise on the Internet and in the Pecan Springs Bed-and-Breakfast Guide. It’s a good source of extra income, and only a little extra work.

  I had just got the last lunch customer out the door and settled down to a few housekeeping chores when Ruby’s sister phoned with a problem—a big one. Ramona was
calling from the Castle Oaks Nursing Home, where Doris (Ruby’s and Ramona’s mother) lives in the Alzheimer’s wing. Doris was one of those mothers who like to call the shots in the family. For instance, when Ruby was nineteen, pregnant, and unwed, Doris insisted that she give up the baby for adoption. It was a long time before Ruby could forgive Doris for interfering—and forgive herself for letting her mother bully her into doing something she didn’t want to do. But a couple of decades later, the long-lost daughter found her way back into Ruby’s life. Things were a little…well, tumultuous for a while, but Amy has made Ruby a proud grandmother. Both of them are still busy making up for lost time.

  Meanwhile, Doris is no longer calling the shots. Instead, she has lost her marbles. After an agonizing few months trying to cope with distance care (Doris was living an hour’s drive away, in Fredericksburg), Ruby and Ramona made the decision to move their mother to Castle Oaks, here in Pecan Springs. The nurses give her good care, and the facility tries to keep its patients under lock and key. But like many dementia patients, Doris has a tendency to wander. What’s more, she’s a wily old lady. Not long ago, she filched a coat and slipped out the front door with a gaggle of visitors. At the neighborhood supermarket, she liberated a bottle of apple juice and some Hershey bars. When a clerk asked for money, she told him that she had twenty-three million bucks in the bank but she couldn’t remember where she’d left her checkbook. The clerk called the cops, and Doris got an armed escort back to Castle Oaks, which pleased her no end.

  Doris was on the lam again today. Sightings had been reported from the H-E-B grocery; Walgreens, where Doris made off with a box of Clairol Ultra Light Natural Blonde and a giant-size bag of Cheetos; and Wag-A-Bag, where she dumped her Cheetos down the toilet, causing a flood in the ladies’. The Pecan Springs PD had been alerted and a Silver Alert posted. (The Silver Alert is modeled after the Amber Alert and lets people know that a senior with mental impairment has gone missing.)