The Memento

by Christy Ann Conlin

  Margaret grinned but not in her regular rude way. It was hard not to like Loretta, unless you were Ma. “I think you pretty much covered every single thing, past and present and future.”

  “Marigold is speaking already of having a garden party. We’ll hope that is nothing more than a notion.”

  “What kind of animals were there?” Margaret asked. “I like horses.”

  “Well, my dear, there were sheep and cattle grazing and chickens running around. There were horses and carriages and such, but that would be going way back.”

  It was nice to see Margaret actually interested in a topic and not ridiculing the place.

  “Colonel Parker used to have all kinds of exotic creatures, too,” I said. “Now it’s just the swans on the pond, and some ducks. The swans have babies. Cygnets, they’re called. But don’t go anywhere near them. Swans are like attack dogs around their babies,” I added.

  Hector chuckled. “You listen to Fancy, Margaret. And there still happen to be peacocks in the forest. My father said he had to shoot a few that came over and were eating up his garden. They eat down to the goddamn stem, excuse my language.”

  “Hector, please. As far as peacocks go, I haven’t seen one around here in years. Maybe off in the woods. Marigold hated them. They were always eating her flowers and perching up in the branches.” Loretta sat down, picking up a small fan from a basket on the table. They were lying all over the house in trays, another relic from the days of yore. I got her a glass of water and she looked grateful.

  “Yes, the Colonel liked the strangest things for pets. Marigold preferred cats, but his falcons ate some of those. There were rabbits at one time, too. The Colonel gave a pair to Charlie for Easter when he was a baby but Marigold turned them out. She couldn’t stand them in the house. Then they just started breeding and breeding.”

  Margaret giggled.

  “That wasn’t the half of it.” Loretta was fanning herself full force now. “I can tell you a story about a garden party about seven years after the war ended. Mr. Charlie was about six years old. Fancy’s mother was still working here. There were rabbits hopping all over the property at that time, not just peacocks strutting about. It was a huge party and there was a whole area in the walled garden with activities for the children who came. Your brother, John Lee, was there, Fancy. Charlie was shy to such a degree it was painful speaking to him. He’d cringe when the Colonel would address him. But John Lee would talk to anyone, shake anyone’s hand. What a sturdy little mister he was. The colonel called him my fine little man.”

  “Ma always said Charlie was timid because his parents was so bullheaded they flattened out his personality,” I said.

  “That does sound like something Marilyn would say. She was working in the kitchen during the party. I was out in the garden with the children. There was a mime and a juggler and trays with tiny fairy cakes for the children. And croquet and a magician and a special marionette play performed in the gazebo. Of course, once the rabbits started hopping out of the thicket the children only wanted to chase them about with carrots from the snack table. Charlie had the biggest carrot and he was holding it out to this large white rabbit.

  “And out of the sky came this huge falcon, swooping down with an ungodly screech. It grabbed the rabbit by the neck. It was dreadful. Charlie was still holding on to the rabbit. He lifted about a foot off the ground. John Lee was yelling, ‘Let go, Charlie, let go of the bunny!’ Charlie was petrified. John Lee gave a jerk on his leg and Charlie came tumbling down to the lawn. What a thud his head made. We could hear the falcon’s huge wings beating as it rose in the sky, blood dripping down.”

  “Marigold must have had a fit,” I said.

  “We heard her screaming as she ran across the lawn, and she sounded just like the great bird, but who wouldn’t seeing their son dangling from talons like those? The Colonel dashed over with his huge leather arm cover. The falconer was running beside him. Well, that great raptor came screeching down to him with the rabbit in its beak. The Colonel held up his arm and the bird landed. I can still see those talons gripping the leather and the Colonel holding it high. ‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘This is a trained bird. I assure you he is under control. Isn’t he splendid? He must have escaped from the mews. Control has been restored.’ He had such a queer way of talking. I can hear him still.”

  Hector slapped his leg and tried to say something but he was laughing too hard to get any words out.

  Loretta shushed him. “Hector, please. It might seem funny to you but it was frightening for everyone. Except the Colonel. He never really did think beyond his own pleasure. Anyway, Charlie threw up right there on John Lee’s lap. ‘Buck up. No one likes a sissy,’ the Colonel said to Charlie. Can you imagine? The Colonel had no patience with his son, poor thing. I took the both of them into the house. Charlie had a concussion from hitting his head.”

  “I bet Marigold had it out with the Colonel. I bet he let that bird out on purpose. Jenny said he had that sort of sense of humour.”

  “Yes, Fancy, he did find that sort of thing entertaining, oddly. Anyway, this was a long time ago.”

  Margaret and Hector sat there as though they were waiting for another story, enraptured. But it was like someone had flipped Loretta’s work switch. She put the fan down and stood up. “How these stories keep flooding back. There’s nothing but songbirds now. Hector, the gardeners were asking about the fountain, something to do with the plumbing? They left a note for you in the carriage house. And if you could take Margaret home later? Children, take Margaret about and give her the history of the place.”

  Hector nodded, put his ball cap back on and left. By the time we got out he was gone, and we went around back to the south side of the house. It opened up onto a trellis garden and a big swath of lawn for croquet and badminton and lawn bowling. I looked over to the stone walls of Evermore, but unless you knew what was inside it didn’t look like much.

  “What’s that, an animal pen? I thought Loretta just said there weren’t any animals around. I hope the Colonel isn’t still lurching around like some zombie.”

  I frowned, ignoring Margaret.

  Margaret persisted. “Loretta sure can talk. She’s got some crazy stories. She must get lonely in that big house with just you to keep her company, Fancy.”

  “Fancy’s good company,” Art said in his high voice. “Loretta just likes to keep people informed. She doesn’t normally tell stories. It’s been a busy few days. She’s stressed out.”

  “Well she seems nice enough. My father said she used to be a religious fanatic but she doesn’t seem that way to me. You must like living over here with her and not your drunk mother, Fancy. So who’s the other daughter, besides the one who plays piano?”

  “Oh, that’s Jenny. She’s the same age as us. She almost died being born early. Jenny has health problems, troubles with her lungs and her eyes. She had a virus in her brain. Isn’t that right, Fancy? And she’s got her own religion.”

  We were almost at the big door to the walled garden.

  Margaret snickered. “A twelve-year-old preacher with her own church … that’s all I need. This place is crazy. Don’t you see that?”

  We knew it was unusual, but it was familiar. And Margaret didn’t seem to be no authority on what was normal and healthy. “Jenny lives for coming out here. We play with her. She’s a bit touched in the head but she’s always been that way. You just have to let her have her own way. We don’t mind. She doesn’t have much of a life.”

  “Well, she’s got lots of frigging money. And you’re getting too grown up for playing if you’re twelve.”

  Jenny’s favourite game was Dead Body and she’d get the three of us playing it whenever she could. One of us would have to pretend to be dead of a tropical illness or a plague. The dying was the first part of the game. When the dying was done and you was lying in the grass in the final position of your death throes, the two living would carry the dead body and heave it onto a marble bench by the garden
, with a bit of help from the corpse. Jenny would do the sermon, followed by lullabies we used as hymns, dancing about until the body would rise. Jenny’s mother had a fit when she caught us at it once and blamed me and Art, the country children with our queer ways. That only made us laugh for it was Jenny who come out from the city with her queer ways. Jenny was the first to speak up and tell her mother it was her idea. She relished shocking Estelle but it was impossible to do—Estelle was convinced her frail little girl was pure and innocent. Even when she saw her do something right in front of her. It was amazing.

  My mouth was dry and I smacked my lips as we walked. “There’s nothing wrong with playing, Loretta says … being carefree. You know the garden party Loretta was telling us about? It would be in here.” I pushed the door open and there was Evermore.

  The fragrant thick air wrapped around us. I pulled the door shut. Margaret put her hands on her hips where the nylon skirt pulled tight and looked around speechless, under the spell of Petal’s End just for a moment, even pushing her bangs away for a clear glimpse. “No one’s going to believe me.”

  “Well, that will be fine with the Parkers. They don’t like people talking about their business so you best be careful what you say in case it gets back. Jenny calls it her garden. She’s possessive like that.”

  “Doesn’t that make you mad, Fancy? Jenny sounds like a spoiled bitch, if you ask me.” No one had asked Margaret, but that never did stop her from offering her opinion.

  “Jenny don’t intend to be mean … most of the time. She tries to be nice but she don’t really understand how.”

  “Fancy can whistle.” Art looked over at me. “And she can do embroidery.”

  “Those are useful skills,” Margaret said, “if you’re a fucking bird or an old hag. Don’t you two watch television or anything like normal kids?”

  “There are no televisions at Petal’s End. Marigold don’t want no new stuff. She don’t trust it. This is where we come and play. And this is where Jenny likes to come. Marigold and Estelle don’t like Jenny down on the beach.” I didn’t bother whistling but I spun around with my arms out, and Art joined in.

  We gave Margaret the tour, taking her to the gazebo. Margaret took in the latticework. Its intricacy reminded me of embroidery. We told her how Marigold had loved dancing with her son and that the Colonel never had time for dancing. Margaret rolled her eyes and when we showed her the hedge labyrinth she said it should be cut down. It hadn’t been trimmed yet and the seven-foot walls were ragged.

  “When it’s pruned up you won’t say that.” Art held his hands up. “If you fly over it, it looks like a rose. There’s an aerial photograph of the estate in the library. There’s four ways in and at the centre there’s a white marble bench, if you can find it. The Colonel had it made as a wedding present for Marigold. She never, ever goes in. She says the hobgobblies hide there.”

  “The Colonel was forever going on about the war. He seemed to be in made-up days all the time, by the end. He would walk around apologizing to people no one could see.”

  “Did he really have a pet bear?”

  “Well, it lived in the woods and he fed it. Marigold said he spent more time following the bear around in his last years than he did with her. Maybe he tried to dance with it and that’s what set it off.”

  “That was the problem,” said Art. “He thought it was his pet.”

  “Grampie said no wild animal is ever your pet.”

  “Well, he should have told the Colonel that. It chased Marigold about the estate. They set a trap for it. No one could walk in the forest. Marigold was right to be upset, Fancy. It tried to kill her,” Art said.

  “Yes, it was in league with the hobgobblies, she declared. It was one of their representatives. Imagine. Don’t go scaring Margaret.”

  “I’m not trying to scare anybody,” Art said. “But it did try to kill her!”

  “How do the two of you manage when you aren’t together?” Margaret made a face. “It’s like listening to one person with two voices. Down in the valley no one really cares what happens over here. I’m just here to look after the old lady.” She looked over her shoulder.

  “The Colonel’s family built Petal’s End way, way back. They owned all the land over on the mountain in the days of sail, before the trains and highways. Loretta says the first Lord Parker was a lumber baron. Petal’s End and Lupin Cove was so different a long time ago. In the past they used to dredge the harbour, and it was a lot deeper, that’s what Grampie said.”

  “I can’t imagine. You two are like little history teachers. I bet that’s your favourite subject at school. It always made me want to poke my eyes out with a pencil.”

  Art looked hurt. “Well, we just thought you might like to know a bit about the place to help you understand Marigold. When the ships stopped coming was when Petal’s End started being mostly their summer place. The Parkers have a big house in the city. That’s why they let the Annex be a mental hospital during the war, because they didn’t need all the space,” Art said.

  “The Colonel got money for it. Tell the truth, Art. Parsimonious, Grampie called it. One way they knew the Colonel had dementia was when he started throwing money away. Marigold put a stop to that.”

  “How’d the old lady get sick?”

  “After Charlie died she had her attack,” I said.

  “Stroke. The proper name is a stroke, Fancy.”

  “Fine, Art, a stroke. When your veins get too tight. Marigold shrivelled up on one side.” I thought of my embroidery and how I needed to fix her face.

  “Well, my veins are getting tight just listening to the two of you. I’m only eighteen and I can feel a stroke coming on.”

  We didn’t bother taking Margaret to the family cemetery or to the Wishing Pool surrounded by the cedars where the broken teacups was lying at rest in pieces at the bottom of the water. We came back by the long perennial beds. There was butterflies everywhere.

  “There’s all kinds of rare types,” Art said. “One of the gardeners told me that. And heritage variety plants, too. He says the butterflies like the air here. He calls it a microclimate.” A butterfly fluttered to the stretch of lupins. It had a border of white and black at the edge of its blue wings. “That’s the Melissa Blue. The blue lupin is the only flower with the nectar they like. The gardener says their larvae eat the leaves. It’s got gossamer wings,” he added.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Silky. Ma uses that word for embroidery floss.”

  Art nodded. “You can’t touch their wings though, or they can’t fly. They’ll die if they can’t fly.”

  We walked out of the garden and Margaret glanced around hesitantly again, like she wasn’t sure if any of this was real. “What happened to the son, Jenny’s father? I mean, I heard what happened to him, in the end, but what did he do?”

  She didn’t like history but she sure liked the gossip. “Oh yes,” I said. “Mr. Charlie. He seemed to spend all his time travelling. He was nice, quiet. He helped with the family empire but he didn’t seem to have a real job. He didn’t come over too much that last year.”

  “I guess he just came back to kill himself, did he?” It seemed there was constantly things Margaret could make fun of.

  It was a scandal but it had faded out of sight, out of mind. Not out of our minds, though. You never forget the sight of a dead man.

  “The whole place is creepy. It was back here, right?” Margaret waved her hand at the west side of the house. The air felt cold to me despite the swelter. And it wasn’t fun no more. I didn’t want to be talking of the dead.

  Twelfth-born, I was thinking.

  We were just past the carriage houses then. The summer sun was still high but had moved through the sky. It must have been close to suppertime. Only the roof of the west side was visible where we stood. Margaret started walking toward it. We hesitated, but followed close behind.

  “That was the mental hospital that Loretta mentioned was mouldy,” Art
explained. “Marigold called it the asylum. She said that’s what Petal’s End was, a sanctuary. There was a swimming pool back there once, a black-bottom pool. It was filled in a long time ago. Loretta said she could hardly remember a pool being here. None of the Parkers are swimmers. They like croquet and badminton.” There was only a slight depression in the grass in front of the abandoned wing of the house.

  We were around the side of the house now, where the lawn ran down a steep hill, and a high, ornate wrought-iron fence with a heavy gate blocked the wing off from the rest of the property. The far end of the neglected wing was against the forest. It wasn’t built that close but the forest had grown in to meet it.

  “It’s so creepy. Estelle is right to want it torn down. You mean to tell me that two snoops like you never come back here?”

  Still we didn’t tell Margaret. I knew it was making Art sick just remembering.

  “Can you get into it from the main house?”

  “Yes, but the door is locked. One of the old soldiers had a heart attack playing croquet. There was only a few left by then and they moved them all at the same time when he died, back down to the valley to a place for seniors. That was when Jenny was a baby.” I knew the key was hanging on a nail behind the painting in the hall leading into the kitchen. Jenny had shown it to me once. She didn’t say a word, just lifted the painting, her huge blue eyes moving to and fro like they was on either end of a teeter-totter. We heard Loretta’s shuffle and her voice calling us and Jenny let the painting bang down.