Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "Don't know that she cares, Jer," Mac said quietly. "She has a blind spot or two. That's okay. We know what they're worth."

  "A lot," Jerry said, although Jane had the impression that Mac didn't mean it literally. "You could sell this for a thousand dollars, couldn't you, Dad?"

  "I suppose," Mac said absently. He was tightening a little silver clamp around a thin black rubber hose; Jane was frankly surprised that he could adapt his big, powerful hands to such finicky work. She was also surprised by the value of her hollies.

  "But you'd never sell it, would you, Dad?"

  Mac shook his head. "Nope."

  Jerry went on. "Mom says you wouldn't sell an inch of land or a blade of grass if your life depended on it. She says you'll never leave Nantucket."

  "No secret there, son," Mac said mildly, picking over a set of wrenches for one the right size. "I guess that's why your mom and I aren't together anymore."

  "Yeah." The word drifted through the window to Jane — a sad, single note of comprehension. There was a silence, and then Jerry said, "She has a new boyfriend. He's a lawyer too."

  "That makes a lot of sense," Mac answered. Jane thought she heard a kind of hardness creep into his voice.

  Almost as an afterthought, she realized she was eavesdropping. I have no business here, she told herself. I should just go. She reached for the doorknob, then had second thoughts. What if Jerry was reaching out in some way to his father; should she blunder in on their heart-to-heart? Absolutely not.

  Jerry was saying, "Two lawyers in one house is too many. You don't know what it's like, Dad. They talk about their cases all the time. I don't like him. He's always trying to take me to a Celts game, or the Bruins — except you know how Mom feels about hockey — and I think he's just, I don't know, trying too hard," he said plaintively.

  "Well ... at least he's trying," Mac said quietly. "Some of the other ones didn't."

  "He knows I don't like him," the boy boasted. "He doesn't know anything about sports, not really. He called Michael Jordan Matthew Jordan the other day. How dumb can you get?"

  "Hey, pal, c'mon. Give the guy a break," Mac said. But Jane thought it cost him something to say it. Again she tried to move away from the window, but Jerry's next question kept her glued to the spot.

  "Dad? I was, wondering ... would you still be with Mom if she didn't leave first?"

  There was a pause, painfully long, before Mac let out his breath in a deep sigh and said, "I don't know, son."

  Now she was ashamed for eavesdropping. She backed away and knocked over a galvanized bucket that had been left inside near the door, setting off a crash that could be heard on Martha's Vineyard. So she picked up the bucket and walked brazenly out with it, intending to make a business of taking it around to the back.

  McKenzie looked up and took in her jogging outfit in one withering glance. "Off to milk the cows?" he asked pleasantly.

  Jerry was still crouching with his back to Jane. He swung his head around and said, "Hi again."

  Jane shifted the bucket from her right hand to her left and walked up to the boy and said in her most cordial voice, "Hi again to you too. I'm Jane."

  "I'm Jerry." That seemed to be all he had to say to her, so he went back to working on the tree spade.

  A regular chip off the old block, she thought, stepping over and around their tools. "I thought I'd go for a jog," she volunteered to no one in particular. When no one in particular responded, she walked smartly away from the scene to the potting shed, where she got rid of the damn bucket. She hadn't bothered to stretch and wasn't about to, not with McKenzie directly in her line of sight. So she just set off cold and passed them at a brisk pace, just as she would have done at her peak of fitness.

  That lasted about a block. My God, I'm out of shape, she realized, pausing to wheeze and bend her back belatedly. She decided to walk briskly for a while instead, her thoughts on the sad and poignant conversation she'd just overheard.

  Why do people marry when they're so clearly opposite? It wasn't the first time she'd wondered. Couldn't they see it would never work? Although Jane did not agree with her father on many things, she did agree with him on one thing: A couple had to be compatible. If nothing matched — experience, education, age, interest — how could they hope to stay in love? How could they hope to spare their children the pain of separation?

  She walked on, her pace slowing as her reverie deepened. McKenzie, although not her type, was undoubtedly a terrific catch for someone. He was even stronger — not to mention, silenter — than the proverbial strong, silent type. If that was some woman's cup of tea, she could hardly do better than Mac McKenzie.

  But for him to marry an ambitious urbanite who'd probably end up Attorney General of Massachusetts? Jane shook her head. No, it was as unsuitable a match as ... as McKenzie and her. No wonder he never had anything except a sneer and a snotty word for Jane: he was taking all the hostility he felt for his ex-wife, and dumping it on her.

  The sad thing was, this Celeste of his was probably just as good a catch for the right someone as he was. She sounded very directed, very purposeful, which was not a bad thing. But Celeste had one set of values, and Mac had another, and poor Jerry was caught in the middle. She wondered what the custody arrangements were, and whether they'd changed in the past three years.

  She turned to go back home. The southwest wind had begun to pick up, bringing with it the instant ocean chill that day by day she was becoming accustomed to. The only way to stay warm would be to jog, so she cranked up her determination and broke into a trot. With the wind at her back it wasn't so bad. And she had a view of the ocean, brooding and magnificent, all to herself.

  Jane jogged along the empty road past empty houses, wondering anew how anyone could abandon this wild and charming isle in the off-season. She wasn't far from home when she spied a little clump of blue tucked in front of a large rock that marked the corner of someone's drive. Suddenly, jogging seemed irrelevant. Jane stopped at once and crouched down before the pale blue clump for a closer look.

  It was a small cluster of flowers, tiny and insignificant and without even a redeeming fragrance. But they were flowers — in bloom — and that made them more valuable to her than a pocket of amber. The house they belonged to was, of course, shuttered up for the winter. Jane plucked one of the pale blue blooms with its short stem and ambled homeward with it, cradling it in the palm of her gloved hand and marveling at its delicate resilience. She thought of Shelley's immortal question, the one everyone asks at the first proof that winter is packing it in at last: Can Spring be far behind?

  When she got back to Lilac Cottage, she was surprised to see that the holly was still in place; the tree spade had looked powerful enough to rip it out in a single scoop. Instead, she found Mac and Jerry probing gingerly with old-fashioned shovels around the roots of the male holly, the one without berries.

  When she asked them about it, McKenzie paused and leaned on his shovel, like a soldier resting on his sword. "It'd be better to cut through everything but the root ball and leave it to recover in place, and then move it next fall. Any chance you'll agree?"

  He said it with such a pessimistic look on his face that she had to smile. "You're making me the meanie again, Mr. McKenzie. I think the sooner the four of us put this trauma behind us," she said, nodding at the hollies, "the better off we'll be." To deflect yet another argument, she held up the little blue flower for his inspection. "What's this called?"

  "Scilla," he said briefly.

  Jane slipped away to shower and change. When she went out to check on their progress, she found McKenzie sipping coffee from a thermos and Jerry huddled over a bag of Doritos, exactly as if they were at a work site in downtown Cleveland.

  She thought of Bing and his neighborly invitation to breakfast. "Hey, why don't you come on in and warm up?" she suggested. "I've got some of Mrs. Adamont's coffee cake defrosted. And I can make you some hot chocolate, Jerry."

  It was a one-two punch and it worke
d; father and son exchanged a silent signal, then McKenzie shrugged and said, "All right."

  "You've been busy," he noted politely as they walked through the disassembled rooms to the kitchen. Every one of them was in some stage of progress except for the fireplace room, which Jane was oddly reluctant to change.

  "I took your advice about Billy B.," she said, pleased that McKenzie had more or less complimented her, maybe. "He starts midweek. He seems like a nice guy; I hope he's as good as he says he is."

  "He is. We reroofed my house together." McKenzie squeezed himself behind Jane's little oak table while Jane brought out serving things and the apricot cake and put a pot of milk on to boil. At Jane's prodding, McKenzie helped himself to a thick slice of the loaf cake. Jerry stuck with his Doritos.

  This was a mistake, was Jane's first thought. The moment had none of the free and easy spontaneity of the breakfast on the morning of the snowstorm. When McKenzie hadn't felt like talking in Bing's kitchen — which was most of the time — both Bing and Cissy had been there to help carry the conversational ball. But here? Jane was on her own. She whisked chocolate mix into a mug of steaming milk for Jerry and set it before him.

  The subject of Billy B. wound down to a close. McKenzie, predictably, did not offer another in its place. Okay, fine, Jane decided. We'll just cut to the chase.

  "You talked the other day about the rugosa rose on Judith Brightman's grave," she said. "I've been meaning to ask you: How did you know the last name was Brightman? That part of the headstone is missing."

  "Now it is; but it didn't used to be," McKenzie said. "I grew up next door to that grave. Years ago the stone was in one piece, even though there wasn't much on it: JUDITH BRIGHTMAN, 1802—1852." He added thoughtfully, "When I was a kid, I used to wonder why there were no words of comfort on it, the way there were on the other gravestones."

  "You mean, like on Gramma's, Dad? 'Hold Fast the Good'?"

  "That's the kind of thing I mean, right."

  "That's called an epitaph," the boy said proudly, jamming his fist in his cellophane bag for the last of the crumbs.

  "So that's all you know about Judith Brightman?" Jane asked McKenzie, disappointed.

  He gave her a wry smile. "Yeah, well, we weren't all that close."

  "I'm sorry. I was just ... curious. I'd like to know more about her. And the rose."

  McKenzie glanced at his son, then back at Jane. "I think I've mentioned that the rugosa rose is not the rose you're looking for," he said meaningfully.

  Plainly, he did not want this conversation to be happening in front of his son. Fine. All he had to do was answer her next question and she'd change the subject. Call it conversational blackmail; she didn't care. She needed that information. If nothing else — bizarre as it seemed — Jane wanted to be able to eliminate Judith Brightman as a suspect.

  "You remember Phillip's dinner party a few weeks ago?" she asked casually. "All those different versions of the legend of the, ah, rose?" In deference to Jerry, she dropped the word "cursed."

  "Well, I was wondering ..." She saw McKenzie's chin lower, a bad sign, but she swallowed and went on. "Do you know which legend was the true one?"

  "Legends aren't necessarily true."

  "All right, then — the original one."

  "What legend, Dad?"

  "I repeat. The rugosa on Judith Brightman's grave is not the rose of the legend."

  "Dad? What legend?"

  "That rose ..." McKenzie seemed to consider whether to go on. His look was pure hard steel. "That rose was in the Quaker Burial Ground."

  Well, at least it was an answer. Jane didn't know whether she was happy about the information, or disappointed. She hunkered down and shot off one more question. "Is it still there?"

  "I'd say to go and see for yourself," McKenzie suggested through clenched teeth, obviously annoyed. He stood up abruptly. "Jer? You finished? Daylight's burnin'."

  Whether he was finished or not, Jerry knew enough to say yes. He slugged the rest of his hot chocolate and said, "Thank you, ma'am," and they left. Jane was left staring at the crumbly remains of the apricot cake and wondering why McKenzie was so anxious that his son not hear his version of the Legend of the Cursed Rose.

  How horrible could the legend be? Certainly not enough to frighten a ten-year-old. Every boy nowadays knew and probably loved Freddy Kreuger; could the story be any worse than Nightmare on Elm Street? She sighed and picked off a corner of the coffee cake to nibble. At least she had an end date for poor old Judith, and the apparent location of the actual Cursed Rose. Two brand-new facts.

  It had been like pulling two brand-new teeth.

  ****

  Jane spent the next hour or so spackling walls, amazed at how free of pain her shoulder was. Maybe it was because of the earlier long, hot shower. Then again, maybe it was because she was moving ahead on the Judith Brightman investigation. She wasn't being very scientific about controlling her variables.

  She took a little break and, on her way to the kitchen, peeked out the front window. Just as she thought: Holly still in the ground, tree spade still to the side. McKenzie and Jerry, shovels in hand, were continuing their slow probe to China. But since he wasn't charging her for it, it was none of her business how he moved it.

  In the kitchen Jane discovered she was out of coffee. She grabbed her car keys and threw on a jacket, intending to run out to the A&P for a few groceries. After a polite "Howzitgoin'?" to McKenzie, she headed for her car, then paused and turned.

  "I'm off to the A&P. Can I get you anything?"

  McKenzie said no thanks, but Jerry had other ideas. "Snickers! That's what I want," he said, throwing down his shovel. "I have money in my jacket pocket. It's on the tractor seat; I'll get it."

  "Hold your horses, Jer," said his father. "Aren't you over your quota for junk food today? Your mother's given strict orders —"

  "Aw, Dad," the boy said, embarrassed to be treated like a ten-year-old. "I'm working as hard as any grown-up."

  "Yeah ... well ... okay." Then McKenzie gave Jane a hapless look that said: Kids.

  Jane waited, then watched in horror as Jerry, sprinting for his jacket on the tractor, tripped on his shovel and went flying headlong into the metal tree spade. She saw it so clearly, almost in slow motion, as his face came down on the side of the sharp metal brace. His father sprang to intervene but was too late. After that it was chaos: cries and tears and blood, an unbelievable amount of it, gushing from Jerry's cheek while his father tried simultaneously to soothe the boy's panic and assess the wound.

  Jane stood over them both, feeling faint, while Mac whipped out a clean hanky from his back pocket and began wiping away some of the blood from Jerry's face.

  "Hold on . .. let's see what we've got ... here we go ... well ... I know ... I know ... that's not so bad ... a coupla stitches, maybe not even ... you'll be like new."

  "Should I call Rescue?" Jane asked, bending over them. It never occurred to her that she didn't have a phone.

  "No, I can get him to the emergency room faster oh, shit, the truck's back at the house."

  "Here. Take my keys," she said quickly. "Do you want me to drive you?"

  "No, that's all right ... thanks," he said, grabbing the keys from her.

  The anguish in his eyes as he looked up at Jane stunned her. She'd never seen it before, the deep controlled panic of a parent whose child is in crisis. Not in her mother; not in her father. Were we never hurt? she wondered as Mac helped Jerry to his feet. He began to scoop the boy up in his arms, but Jerry was mortified by the thought and insisted on walking to Jane's car.

  They drove off. Jane watched until she could see them no more. She was shaking; there was so much blood. She wanted to talk to someone, to say, "Did you see that? Did you see that?" even though it was obvious that no one else had. Bing's car was gone, and so was Cissy's Jeep. She felt impossibly alone. It seemed as if there must be something she could do. She went inside, her concentration completely destroyed. What had she been d
oing? She had no idea.

  It's not that Jerry was going to die or lose a limb or be told he had a terminal disease; she knew that perfectly well. It was just that, one minute he was excited about a candy bar, and the next, he was rushing to be stapled shut or sewn up or whatever it was they did. One misstep ... one false move ... and his life, or at least this one day of it, had been forever altered. He would have the scar, no matter how tiny, to remember this Sunday on Nantucket.

  She tried to put a positive spin on things. By Tuesday he'll be showing off his war wound at schooL And good or bad, at least he'd been doing something, not sitting around and watching TV. But she felt restless and upset and was still watching the clock when Bing arrived.

  "I didn't see your car; I assumed you were in town," Bing said after she hailed him over.

  They stood beside the tree spade, hovering over the dark spots of blood on the grass, as Jane filled him in on the accident. Bing looked concerned, but not overly so. He told Jane he'd had his share of stitches when he was growing up; all boys did.

  "We do it on purpose, split ourselves open and get sewn up again. Later on, when women ask us about the scars — and they always do — we make up exotic stories about how we got them, usually in duels."

  It was impossible not to smile. When she did, Bing stole a glancing kiss, claiming the smile, he said, for his own. "Don't worry about Jerry. It's part of growing up."

  But Jane was still unconvinced. "That's easy for us to say; neither of us has children." She stood there in the cold April air, morose and shivering.

  Bing put his arm around her to warm her and started nudging her back into the house. "C'mon; I'll make us both some tea."

  They were walking up the stairs together when Jane heard the sound of her car and swung her head around. "They're back!" she cried, her heart lifting at the sight of them both in her front seat. She waved at them happily; McKenzie drove on by.

  "I think they're both a little dazed," Bing said softly, apologizing for his neighbor.

  "Well, sure, I'd expect them to be," Jane said, flushing. She felt incredibly foolish, presuming to be part of their family intimacy just because she'd happened to witness the accident.