In the middle of January, when normal kids have already gone back to school, Mom drops him off at the library. It was her idea. He waits for the car to leave. Instead of going inside, he clears the snow off a bench. With service, his phone downloads a list of emails and unread text messages. Five of them are from Molly.
The last one just before New Year’s Eve.
Oliver can see the circulation desk through the sliding glass doors. Molly is helping someone check out. He stays outside long enough to become quite cold. When his phone buzzes, he pulls his gloves off with his teeth, but it’s just an update reminder for one of his games.
He can’t stop chattering.
It’s late afternoon. Mom won’t be back for another hour. Oliver wants to go inside, but if he does, he’ll talk to her. If he talks to her, color and detail will return to the faded memories. He’ll also get her in trouble with Ms. Chatty Pants. So he’ll sit on the bench until his mom picks him up.
“Oliver? Is that you?”
Molly stands at the entrance without a coat. Her yellow and black rugby shirt is long-sleeved. She crosses her arms and walks beneath the awning. Oliver buries his hands in his pockets as his stomach drops twenty floors into fear and, for once, a little excitement.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Using the wifi.”
“Out here?”
“My mom’s picking me up. And I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
“What are you talking about?”
He looks back. Ms. Chatty Pants is at the circulation desk. “There’s no service at the property. That’s why I didn’t text you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re freezing. Come wait inside, at least. I know you’re from Texas, but you know what cold is. Stay out here long enough and you’ll be an ice cube.”
Molly hunches her shoulders. She’s already shivering.
“I…I’ll go inside,” he says. “In a minute. You should go before you get in trouble.”
“You all right?”
He starts to answer, but words don’t make it out. Just a funny sound. A knot lodges in his throat, pressure building in his chest. If he doesn’t say something, he’ll have to go home feeling like this. He’ll have to sit in his room with it bottled up.
Still, the words don’t form.
He looks at his boots, rocking back and forth.
“I’ll be right back,” Molly says.
She rushes for the doors. Maybe she’s going to get a coat, or tell Ms. Chatty Pants to call 911. Or maybe she’s not coming back.
“I saw a snowman!” He jumps to his feet. “I saw it. I saw all those things you talked about. You were right. And I saw a snowman.”
The words had to get out.
He forced himself to say something, no matter what order they came out.
Before he exploded.
Molly stops under the parapet. Her cheeks are flush, but she’s not shivering. Not like Oliver. Someone exits the library and goes to their car, looking back at the teenagers. Ms. Chatty Pants is looking at them from the desk, but he doesn’t care.
He’s got to get the words out.
He tells her about all the stuff in the attic and reading the journal and the snowthing cleaning the road. He tells her about his grandmother lurking in the cloak and the weird glove.
He doesn’t stop there.
The hobbit house and the creatures and the snowman that saved him. When he’s finished, when there are no more words left inside, Molly is still there. She hasn’t moved. She just stares. He’s afraid to say more, afraid he’s already said too much. He’s huffing to catch his breath.
“You think I’m crazy?”
She doesn’t answer because this is the part where someone would ask if he’s been dreaming or pat him on the shoulder or hand or, worse, the cheek and ask about his blood sugar because he’s a diabetic, the shot kind. There’s no such thing as snowmen, Oliver. Not like the ones you’re seeing.
Molly walks over to the bench, arms still firmly crossed, and sits down. She says, “I believe you.”
“You do?”
“You saw it, right?”
“But am I crazy?”
“Because you saw something? That’s not crazy, Oliver. You had the balls to see crazy things and tell someone. That doesn’t make you crazy.”
He collapses next to her.
The words are out. He doesn’t have to hide them anymore. Molly has them now. She heard them and believed them. And that, he thinks, is what will keep them from sticking in his throat again.
“There’s more,” he says.
“I know.”
They stay on the bench until Molly begins to chatter. Oliver holds out his hand. She leads him inside where it’s warm. They find a table at the back of the library. He tells the rest of his story, leaving no details unearthed.
Until he’s empty.
F L U R Y
thirteen
February is warmer than usual.
Snow still covers the ground, but the melt glistens off the asphalt. That means no shoveling. Oliver walks down the middle of the road, listening to the trees drip until he reaches the main road. He shades his eyes.
The dashed line is visible on the main road.
He stands on the shoulder like a hitchhiker without a hope, waiting for a pickup truck to come over the hill. A red one. Eventually, he carves an indention in the snowbank and sits. He’s almost asleep when the first vehicle passes.
It’s not red. Not a pickup.
“You excited?” His mom is coming up the entry road, wearing a thick turtleneck and a long scarf.
“Just waiting.”
Oliver shades his eyes to see her smiling. Casually, she walks onto the main road, standing on the dashed line to look in both directions. She looks like she expects something to come any moment.
“I used to come out here when I was little,” she says. “I’d stare at the crest of that hill and wonder what was over it. How far did it go? Who was out there?”
She cups her eyes like binoculars.
“Sometimes, I’d pretend my real parents were out there, and if I waited long enough, they would drive by and recognize me, like they’d lost me when I was born and they’d been searching for me ever since.”
She looks in the other direction.
“You ever feel that way?”
If he was honest, he’d tell her he felt that way once, when he stayed at his dad’s in Los Angeles. But he couldn’t tell Mom that. He couldn’t tell her about the strangers that came to his house, the business meetings in the bedrooms, and all the times he turned on the television and told Oliver he’d be right back.
Sometimes the house was still empty in the morning.
She didn’t need to know all that.
“I’m sorry, Oliver.” She remains in the middle of the road. “I mean it.”
What she meant was that she was sorry she was a bad mom.
Oliver made her stop saying that years ago. Now she just says sorry, like she’s apologizing for his life. Somehow, she’s responsible for his dad, for his diabetes, for his life. Somehow, if she could just get over that hill, she would find what she was looking for. But she’d gone over that hill, she’d seen what was over there. And she crested the next one and the next.
It was just more of the same.
More hills.
“What happened to Grandfather?” Oliver asks.
“Your grandfather?” She plops down next to him, sighing. “Well, my father, your grandfather, wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Ever since I can remember, he kept to himself. Usually, he was tinkering in the garage or hiking the property. He was a burly man, a real man’s man. Definitely not a man for children.
“I had just gone to boarding school when Mother called, said she’d have someone pick me up at the bus station. I was at home a couple of days before I noticed he wasn’t around. Mother never said anything until I asked. Then she just said he wasn’t coming back.”
She sculpts a
snowball.
“It didn’t matter, really. Another week and everything felt the same, with or without him.”
She gets up and knocks the snow off her pants, clapping her hands. She was about to apologize again, but catches herself. Fact is, she had it just as rough. Maybe worse. She did the best she could.
She doesn’t need to apologize.
A distant rumble comes from the left. They both hood their eyes to see the truck. Oliver jumps to his feet. They wait by the road as it pulls through the gate and stops.
Molly opens the door. “Need a ride?”
“Yeah.” Oliver smiles. He opens the passenger door and waits.
His mom leans into the cab to introduce herself. It’s the first time she’d met one of his girlfriends, because she hadn’t seen her yet. And because Oliver’s never had a girlfriend. Molly pushes the hair from her eyes—the candy-red strand dyed brown like her normal hair—and shakes her hand.
Mom steps back and squeezes Oliver’s shoulder. “You go ahead.”
“You sure?”
She’s sure.
Oliver climbs into the cab, kicking empty Starbucks cups out of the way. Molly turns the radio down. Oliver watches his mom in the sideview mirror. She closes the gate. Maybe she didn’t see snowmen when she grew up. Maybe she didn’t see anything at all.
Maybe that was worse.
***
Molly sits across the table from Oliver. She pulls at the stiff collar rising from her wool sweater and catches Oliver’s glance before casting her eyes down.
“Tea is served,” Mom sings.
Grandmother puckers her lips and reaches for a small plate of scones. Tea is poured in silence. The awkward silence rings in his ears. He stirs creamer into his tea and clinks the cup.
Molly, however, moves with precision as she pours her cup and lifts it, eyes cast down and pinkie finger drawn in. The china doesn’t make a sound when she places it in the saucer.
“A lovely house, Ms. Toye. The orderliness is breathtaking.”
A long pause hangs.
“Thank you, Molly,” Mom finally says. “We work very hard to keep it this way.”
Grandmother draws another sip, passing a sidelong glance at her.
“We’re happy to have you come out,” Mom says. “Aren’t we, Mother?”
“Tell us about yourself,” Grandmother says.
Molly takes a bite and doesn’t speak until she swallows.
She grew up in town. So did her mom and dad. He’s a cop. Her mom teaches high school history. “She’d kill to be sitting here, having tea with the Toye family. She says you’re quite a mystery, Ms. Toye.”
“Keeping to oneself is not outrageous,” Grandmother says.
“Of course not.”
“Why are you here?”
“Ma’am?”
“Your manners are perfect. Your flattery is charming. What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything,” Molly says without hesitation. “Your grandson invited me, and I like him.”
Mom tries to interject. Grandmother holds up her hand. “Where did you get these manners?”
Molly swipes her scone with raspberry jam and chews slowly. She wipes the corners of her mouth while a knot grows in Oliver’s gut.
“I learned about tea ceremony at the Zen Center of Denver. My mom would take me there when I was a kid. If I’m honest, it was boring. But now that I’m older, I appreciate the structure. As for the flattery, Ms. Toye, I was simply observing my surroundings. My hope is that you haven’t lost sight of the historic beauty you have around you. I work in the library, so I appreciate order. It’s where I met your grandson.”
Mom hides a grin behind her teacup. Oliver sits on his hands. He taps his toe in a steady rhythm. Grandmother turns her head toward him.
He lifts his foot off the floor to fidget in silence.
“Honestly, I’m thrilled,” Molly adds. “Very few people have seen the outside of your house. I would guess that fewer have seen the inside and had tea with you, Ms. Toye.”
“Try none,” Mom says.
“I’m honored to be here, sitting in the house your husband built in 1901 without any assistance from people in town.”
Oliver didn’t know his grandfather built this by himself.
“You are one of the largest donors to the Nature Conservancy,” Molly continues, “and one of the largest private landowners in the state of Colorado. Like I said, I am honored. However, if I make you uncomfortable, I will leave.”
Oliver is frozen.
His mom doesn’t move.
Only Molly dares to sample her tea and take a bite while the silence hardens.
Fearless.
Grandmother stares ahead, then says, without looking at anyone in particular, “Very well. If we are to have company, it is perhaps nice to have someone that can appreciate what we do.”
And that was it.
They talk about things like school and hobbies and hiking the countryside. When Grandmother finishes her tea, she wipes her mouth and announces tea is finished. She leaves the room in a way that Oliver has become accustomed to seeing. Strangers, he knew, would consider it rude.
Molly never flinches.
Mom lifts her teacup, finger hooked through the handle, and smiles at Molly. “It’s so good to have you.”
And she means it.
***
“That was amazing.” Oliver holds the back door for Molly. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“All of that during tea! You nailed it, said everything she wants to hear, even the way she wants to hear it.”
“It’s easy. Just look at the place. You live in a museum. Your grandmother donates to the community, half of it is done anonymously, but everyone knows it’s her. She’s a strong, assertive woman. I assumed she would respect strength and honesty. I just did the things that matter to her.”
She made it sound easy.
They walk around the house. Before they reach the windmill, Oliver warns her. “It’s electrified. Must be a loose wire or something.”
“How do you know?”
“I touched it.”
Molly’s eyes wander to the top of the structure. Rust has chewed holes through the weather vane. A gust of wind hits the windmill’s blades, and the squeal pierces their ears and gets under their skin. They both plug their ears with their little fingers.
“Well, it’s not harvesting any wind,” she says.
“Definitely not.”
“No, I mean it keeps turning when there’s no wind, so it must be using energy. But why?”
“Maybe Grandmother likes the way it looks.”
Molly puts out her hand, lets it hover a few inches above the windmill’s leg. She eases it closer. Oliver’s fingers dance at his sides, but he resists the urge to pull her away. With a half-inch gap between her and the metal, her hair begins to rise. A few strands at first, then several fray out.
“That’s weird,” she says. “It’s emitting a field or something. I don’t think this is a loose wire.”
Before Oliver can respond, she slaps her hand against it. Her hair flairs out below her stocking cap.
“Oh, wow,” she says. “It’s like I swallowed a tuning fork.”
She sounds auto-tuned.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” But when Oliver grabs her hand, the hairs stand on his arm. A current of helium fills the space between his eyes; he doesn’t want to let go—can’t let go—or he’ll float away like a parade ornament.
Molly yanks her hand like a wet tongue stuck to cold metal. She examines her palm. Oliver feels planted on the ground, his head heavy again. She takes a lap around the antiquated structure and studies it from top to bottom.
“I don’t think this is a windmill. Not anymore, at least.”
“I don’t care what it is; we shouldn’t touch it.”
“It’s a disguise.”
“For what?”
She shrugs. “Maybe this is why t
here’s no Google Earth or cell phone reception. Maybe it creates a distortion field. You ever see it stop spinning?”
He shakes his head. “Why would she block cell phones? She’s got a landline. What’s the difference?”
“Maybe it’s a side effect.” She looks at the house and barely moves her lips, like someone might be watching. She whispers, “If you had a snowman, would you want the world to see?”
A chill wriggles down Oliver’s neck that has nothing to do with the cold.
“What about the hobbit house?” he says. “There’s reception in there.”
“Maybe it has a deflector shield.”
She chuckles, and he knows why. This all sounds like a Wachowski Brothers movie.
They venture out to the field but don’t go very far—the hair still tingling on Oliver’s arms—just far enough to get out of sight. He stops where the snowball had pulverized Henry, knocking the cap off his gel-sculpted head, and points to the exact spot where it was launched. Molly nods while he tells the story. Just as he gets to the part where Henry stops short of the trees, Molly wanders forward.
She touches the prickly needles.
“I swear he was right there,” Oliver says.
“How do you know it’s a ‘he’?”
“It’s a snowman. He, uh, told me.”
She looks back. “He talks?”
“No, he doesn’t talk. I just know.”
“He wrote you a note?”
“No.” Oliver sighs. This is when he feels the craziest. “I could feel it, like a thought.”
“How do you know you weren’t imagining it?”
“This was different, I swear. I was thinking about ‘it’ standing there watching me, and then I suddenly had this thought that told me he was a ‘he,’ not an ‘it.’”
“Yeah, but maybe it’s neither. It’s like people call God a ‘he.’ Maybe God is both.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you.” She means it. Mostly.
Molly steps into the dark between the trees like a foxhound with a scent.
“We won’t find him.”
“How far have you gone?”
Claus: The Trilogy Page 60
