“And I like all of those things too, Art. You’ll be a big tall man with a low voice soon enough. No need to rush any of that,” Harry said.
“What’s the rest of the story?”
“Which story, Fancy?”
“The story you was reading when you first got here. About the garden.”
“Oh yes, what a memory you have, yes, ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter.’ ”
“What happens?”
“It doesn’t end well. It’s not a happy story.”
“How does it end? I hope no one loses their ears in it.” Jenny giggled.
“Well, you see, as spectacular and exotic as it is, the garden also happens to be, well … it’s poisonous, as I said before, and his daughter, raised in the garden, is immune to the poisons of the flowers and plants.”
“That’s a good thing. My mother keeps me in all the time because she says I have a weak immune system.”
“Well, Beatrice, the girl in the story, she has a very strong immune system, so even the most beautiful and deadly flower can’t hurt her. But she became poisonous to others, as I told you. And when she fell in love, she began to poison her lover. He found an antidote but it overwhelmed her as she was already intensely toxic. And thus Beatrice died in the garden.”
Margaret rubbed the sweat off her forehead. “Love can be poisonous all right.” She looked at me. Jenny was watching us both.
“Yes indeed, Margaret, that’s one interpretation of the story. Love is a complex emotion. Infatuation is an intoxicating thing. I suppose, like anything, we can be corrupted by it or uplifted by it, poisoned by it or healed by it.”
Margaret went to put one more piece of soap at the top of the tower and she held it there. She glanced at Jenny and me as she dropped it and the soap castle fell to pieces, the blocks of soap clunking on the table and down on the floor. “Oh my goodness,” Margaret said, twiddling her bangs. “That wasn’t balanced properly, now was it?”
Harry put his head in his hands.
“Girls. Now please, let’s get along,” Sakura said. Her voice was level and reassuring.
Margaret seemed so sturdy it was hard to believe Jenny could actually do anything to really harm her. We heard the laughing and shrieking of the party planners as they got near the Water House. Jenny and I slipped out and left the rest of them there. Margaret watched us go.
Jenny held her parasol over both of our heads as we strolled toward the house. I didn’t know whether I should be direct and just come out and ask her what she put in that flower water. It was hard to forget Margaret shaking and gasping for breath.
“I know what Margaret did. I’ve seen them in the carriage house. I watched from behind the corner. It was disgusting. She was on her hands and knees,” Jenny said out of nowhere. “I’ve seen my mother like that. Those sorts of women never think anyone sees. Hector is not your one true love, Fancy. You will know your one true love. My father told me so. He said you’ll know when your love isn’t true.”
Just like that, my pity for Margaret was snatched away with those words. Jenny could do as she pleased to her.
“I long for my one true love. In the winter it’s snowflakes. In the summer it’s my swans and roses. But there must be more to true love. It’s not the kind that makes you bad.”
Jenny reached out and with her icy hand she squeezed mine. “All is calm,” she said. “All is bright.” She let go of my hand and ran up the side steps into the big house. Such a peculiar small girl, holding the handle of that big wooden door as she pulled it closed, leaving me alone like there was no one else on earth but me.
17.
The Boy in the Waves
I AVOIDED MARGARET for the next week and she avoided everybody but Marigold. She was coming late to work and leaving early, walking slow, red hives all over. And I stayed away from Hector. I wanted nothing to do with him—a nineteen-year-old man playing nasty Margaret on one side and a twelve-year-old girl on the other.
On occasion I’d see Hector driving by in his precious Old Rolly or in his pickup truck and he’d wave like not a thing had happened. When he gave Margaret a ride home and she’d wave like the Queen I’d pretend I didn’t see them. It disgusted me to even think about them together. I remembered her with the student minister.
Other times she’d be waiting outside for her father to pick her up. Once he drove up quick. The gardeners were leaving and it was noisy and she didn’t hear him. I was at the door. Margaret hadn’t said a word to me as she stood there blowing out smoke while the trucks went by. Her father’s car came and she went stiff, looking at her cigarette with terrified eyes. Without thinking, I plucked the cigarette from her fingers and took a puff. Margaret’s father got out of the car. He gave me a once-over. “Smoking’s disgusting,” he said. “Girls who smoke are disgusting.”
I took a drag and blew out the smoke real slow in a haze around my head. It made me dizzy.
“Come along, Margaret.”
She looked out the car window and mouthed “Thank you.” I gave her a nod.
Hector came to find me later in the day when I was bringing laundry in before suppertime, after he’d been in to see Loretta and she’d scolded him for disappearing all the time. He was burdened down with errands, he said, it wasn’t his fault. He went on and on about how much they were expecting him to do, and he had wood to cut, and it was all interfering with the business plans he and Buddy had. He made the mistake of putting his hand on my arm when he approached and I gave him a slap.
“Did Margaret tell you? It don’t mean nothing. She’d give it for free to a toothless old man. She’s that kind of girl,” he said. “Not like you.”
“Margaret didn’t say a word. The walls got eyes and ears at Petal’s End, don’t you know, Hector? Remember, I’m my Grampie’s granddaughter. I know things.” It was like the lies were infecting me. “You keep away from me,” I said. “You might have some fooled around here but not me.”
Hector took a step back as he spoke. “You’re going to turn out no different than your mother, Fancy Mosher. Don’t you go acting like you’re special, like you’re a Parker. You’re no different than any of us.”
It was easier for me now, with my lust for Hector broken into pieces. I moved through the house in a whisper, wearing my maid outfit. I barely saw Art, who was busy all the time out in the garden. I would hear him singing and I’d join in for a moment before going about whatever business Loretta had sent me out on, taking this and that here and there, slipping through the big house, hearing voices talking and laughing and arguing, the piano music flowing from early in the morning right through to the night.
The choir practices were fast now because we was singing so beautiful and we wanted it to be over. We wasted no time. Jenny stood there turning the pages all demure and proper and quiet. Marigold stately in her armchair, sometimes napping through it or fanning herself, at other times just staring into space, and on occasion looking at me strangely. And me, wondering if I’d see someone, or something, if I looked where Marigold was staring. But when my eyes followed hers I’d see only a hairline crack in the ceiling or a chip in a wooden chair.
It seemed each day Pomeline faded further. She was barely eating. And she was napping now, after her morning practice, and again in the afternoon.
There were five days left until they’d throw open the gates to Petal’s End, the doors to Evermore, and people would laugh and children would sing and Marigold would stroll about with her silver-handled cane, tossing rose petals, handing out elegant slices of rose-petal soap and spraying mists of fresh rosewater.
For our afternoon off Art and I had gone out on our bicycles. A cormorant flew by and I followed it on my bike until it was just a dark speck disappearing into the sky.
“What’s she doing here?” Art said.
“Don’t know,” I said. “Hunting, I suppose.”
“Fancy,” Art said, “I meant there.” He was pointing at Ma. She was up the road a bit, leaning on her car, lips painted red
. She must have got loose from Ronnie. She had on more makeup than usual and it was all put on as though she had double vision when she did it. Around her neck hung a glittery rhinestone necklace, like she was going somewhere special. She wore a black dress. Ma lit a cigarette and tapped her foot.
My legs were sticking to the vinyl bike seat and when I lifted my thigh it felt like my skin was ripping. I could hear her speaking my name but I planned on biking right by her. Fancy Mosher, Fancy Mosher, Fancy Mosher.
“Jesus,” Art said. “It’s like a bad nursery rhyme. We’ll talk to Harry when we get up to Petal’s End. He’ll help you.”
“She’ll never leave me alone, not until the day she dies and maybe not even then. You know what she’s got in her head.”
Funny how the sultry air clasps sound. I heard Ma’s voice calling, “Fancy Mosher, you stop. Right now.”
I kept going and Art said nothing. I started whistling.
“Fancy,” Ma hollered again.
I turned. Art forged ahead but then he gave in and turned too. Ma was beckoning, one hand on her hip, wobbling on her high-heeled shoes.
“How’d I ever end up out of a thing like that?” I whispered. “She’s drunk.”
“It would seem that way,” Art whispered in reply.
She got in the car and started it, backed up and came charging forward, slamming on the brakes when the car was almost touching my legs.
“Get in the car, honeys,” she said. She ran her finger softly on my scar through the open window. I did what she said, under her spell. “Put them bikes in the back.” She popped the trunk and I put my bike in. I don’t know why but Art picked up his bike.
“Art, you go along then,” I said, but he put the bike in and got in the car.
“You’re looking lovely this afternoon, Mrs. Mosher.”
Ma looked at Art as she pushed on the gas and we roared up the dirt road, dust and rocks flying behind us. “Don’t call me that unless you want to insult me, Art. Call me Marilyn. Well, I’m glad you noticed how I’m looking. You’re going to be a lady-killer when you grow up,” she yelled to him, winking, even though it seemed more like she had dirt in her eye. The car swerved near a tree in front of the big stone boundary wall of Petal’s End.
“Ma, watch the road.”
She hauled on the wheel and we shot across to the other side, almost going in the ditch before she straightened the car out. She grabbed another cigarette. “Don’t you go telling me how to drive, Fancy. Don’t you go telling me nothing. Just like having your grandfather around. Holy Mother Mercy.” All of a sudden she started weeping and took a big breath in, a big huge gasp, and then she stopped. “Forgive me, Fancy. I ain’t myself today. Forgive your old Ma.”
“So where we going, Mrs. Mosh … I mean, Marilyn?”
“Oh, we’re just going on a little country drive,” she said.
As we passed by the driveway into Petal’s End, a small thing glowing in a white dress stepped out, its hands clasped against the fairy-green leaves and the grey stone walls. Ma let out a scream. “Do you see it, Fancy?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Praises to Holy Mother Mercy. You got the gift. You believe.”
“It’s Jenny Parker, Ma,” I shouted at her.
“When did she go and die? No one told me.”
“She’s not dead, Mrs. Mosher.” Art was yelling over the car engine too.
“Well, praises, praises, look at that. She ain’t dead. I never thought she’d make it to five, let alone twelve. Scrawny, ain’t she? Looks like her grandmother does now. I hear she ain’t aging well. That’s what the cleaners say.” Ma pulled over and Jenny came over near the car. She did look like Marigold standing there, like she was turning into a withered old lady.
Ma eyed Jenny. “I thought you was a hobgobbly. Maybe you are and you snuck into Petal’s End. Marigold better take care with you running about.”
“You shouldn’t speak that way about my grandmother.” That was all Jenny said, like us driving up with a crazy lady in a beat-up, swerving car somehow made sense to her.
Ma seemed transfixed, looking at Jenny, a doll that sprung to life before her eyes.
“I’ve been waiting all day to see them. We play together, you see,” Jenny said, her voice stern and low.
Ma laughed, her body jerking. “Oh yes, the Parkers playing with the Moshers,” she said.
“How silently, how silently,” Jenny said, in a soft voice.
“Well, we’re going on a drive, dear Jenny Parker. I’m Fancy’s mother.” Ma’s voice was purring again.
“I know who you are. You’ve got the Mosher eyes.” There weren’t a lot of people who could unnerve Ma, especially when she was drunk. Grampie or Loretta maybe. But Jenny was affecting her.
“Get in then, if you’re coming. Art, don’t be rude. Open the door for little Miss Parker.”
Art got out and opened the door for her, and Jenny slid in beside me. She squeezed my arm with her cold, claw-like fingers. “Hello, Fancy.”
Art was laughing nervously. Ma pressed on the gas and we zoomed off, pebbles flying, the air getting warmer as we drove away from the bay.
Ma locked eyes with Jenny in the rear-view mirror. “Is your Granny still afraid of hobgobblies, little girl? Because she should be. She should be very afraid. Hobgobblies is coming to get her one of these days, and don’t she know it.” Jenny didn’t seem to take offence. She even gave a twitch in what I thought might be agreement. “You don’t need to see the dead if you keep company like this girl, Fancy.”
We almost went into a tree then. “Please, Marilyn!” Art yelled, grabbing the wheel. “Please keep your eyes on the road. Why don’t I drive? I love to drive on a dirt road.”
Jenny leaned forward on the seat. “I could as well. Hector has been giving me lessons in the big car while you’ve been helping Loretta. He’s also been letting me drive his truck but my legs are too short. Don’t worry, Fancy. He thinks I’m five years old. They won’t let me do any work around the house or anything at all except play, so Hector takes me along with that moronic Buddy. Hector thinks I’m like a puppy who likes to go for a drive.” She coughed from the dust kicking up from the dirt road.
“Jenny, you might want to get out. You can still walk home. There’s a door in the wall up a bit and you can walk back on the path.”
“She can come along. You haven’t seen your mother in a long time, Fancy.” Ma burped. “It’s almost time, Honeysuckle.”
“I haven’t seen my mother in a while either. She never takes me on outings. You’re lucky, Fancy,” Jenny said.
We raced down a hill and as we came up there was a man walking on the side of the road. It was Harry, swinging his arms, long legs striding along, a pack on his back, same khaki shorts and a pair of binoculars around his neck. He was just past where the Petal’s End wall turned and ran west through the woods along the southern border of the property.
“Now who is that good-looking man? He looks a bit queer but there’s nothing wrong with that,” Ma said, staring, almost running him down. “Look at his funny hat. He looks like an explorer.”
“It’s my cousin, Harry. We should offer him a ride. He’s a scientist.” Jenny tapped Ma on the shoulder.
“Well, you don’t have to get all pushy about it, my God. I never had much time for a man of science.”
“Pull over, Mrs. Mosher.”
“It’s Marilyn. You don’t need to go all formal like you people at Petal’s End like to.”
“Pull over, Marilyn.”
Maybe it was not being able to see Jenny’s eyes behind her glasses. Maybe it was because she had that Parker way about her. Or maybe it was the creepy low voice crawling out of such a small child. I don’t know. Ma slowed right down and peered out the open window.
Harry was out of breath from the heat and Ma was making him trot along there in the full sun beside the car, with sweat dripping off his nose and chin. He had his hat in his hand now that he was jogging. “Very good
, then, look at all of you, out for an afternoon drive,” he said, voice bouncing with his stride. Finally Ma pulled over. “So kind of you to stop. It’s hotter than I anticipated. I’ve been used to the fresh breezes at Petal’s End but when you go inland, well, it’s a different climate. You must be Fancy’s mother. I was under the impression you were on a holiday … of sorts. Have you come back early?” He had this puzzled look on his face, and he kept his eyes on mine like he thought I’d mouth him a secret message.
Ma laughed and pounded the steering wheel as she stared out the window. “You talk like a retarded man,” Ma said. “Sure you aren’t left over from when they had the mental hospital back up there, one of them crazy choir singers?”
“Why don’t you get in, Cousin Harry.” It wasn’t put as no question. Jenny’s voice was loud.
“Well, how kind of you to come and fetch me,” Harry said hesitantly.
“Open the door for the man, Fancy. You heard your midget friend. Make room for the man,” Ma said.
I opened the door and moved over. Jenny and I were so thin we took up one space together.
Harry got in. He wiped his forehead and leaned forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Harold Prescott, Marigold’s cousin. My wife and I are visiting for the summer. What a sensational region, I must say.”
Ma looked at his hand briefly then hit the gas and we roared off. She took a drink from a bottle of gin she held between her legs.
“Slow down,” Harry yelled. Jenny and I started laughing. She was laughing like it was funny. I was laughing because if I stopped I’d start crying and crying never led to anything good with Ma.
Ma turned on the radio and gospel music came blasting out, and she started talking to Art about the graveyard, about how many Moshers were buried in it.
“Is your mother drunk?” Harry whispered.
Jenny giggled. “You’re slow on picking things up. But most adults are. Don’t feel badly, Cousin Harry. You mean well. I know you do. Did you know Granny wants to open up the Annex? She wants to renovate it. She thinks my father would want that.”
The Memento Page 22
