by Mary Rickert
In the kitchen, which is shockingly lemon-fresh clean, Ruthie sits at the table, haloed by the bluish glow of stove-top light, eating chocolate cake.
“I didn’t know we had dessert.”
“I brought it from home. Would you like some?”
“No, thanks,” Bay says, surprised at herself. After all, chocolate cake is her favorite. Did Ruthie actually pack an entire cake? She shovels a large piece into her mouth, smiling around the tines of the fork at Bay, who, with a quick wave, heads up the stairs to her bedroom where she stands at her window, watching the fireflies below. What’s happening? Why are they here? Fireflies aren’t usually out at this time of night or this late in the season, or before it’s going to rain, and it’s going to rain tonight.
“Forever,” Bay says, brushing her fingers against the screen, forgetting for a moment that it is there, as though she could reach through the open window to touch the night, catch a firefly, touch forever, the way she believed she did when she was young and her happiness was certain, her life always wonderful, and her home forever safe from harm.
FOXGLOVE Foxglove, also known as Fairy Caps, Bloody Fingers, Dead Man’s Bells, and Witch’s Thimbles, contains cardiac glycosides that slow the heart. If the foxglove poison goes undetected, the brain will be starved of oxygen and the heart will go into arrest. However, foxglove tea, added to water in vases, helps preserve the life of cut flowers. A common heart medication, Digitalis, is derived from foxglove.
Nan considers not disturbing Howard, but she hasn’t gotten to be her age without developing a fairly large imagination for all the possible ways the most innocent solution can go wrong. Howard is her responsibility, after all. Though she can think of another troubling reason for him to appear to be talking to himself, Nan suspects he is only drunk, which sets her mind at ease somewhat; but what if the night ceases to entertain, and he decides to walk home? That could be dangerous.
This is the culmination of my life, Nan thinks, to be prepared for the worst possible outcome of any situation. Hasn’t she tried hard to keep everyone safe? Hasn’t everyone who traveled in and out of her life done so unscathed ever since she failed so completely with Eve? Well no, actually, Nan thinks, isn’t that the point? How could she forget for even a moment? It’s almost enough to make her go back to the house. How nice it would be to crawl into bed and pull the covers up to her neck until everyone is gone. But can Nan really leave Howard in her garden so near the dangerous foxgloves? She shakes her head at the thought of another dead boy.
Calm down, Nan tells herself as she walks carefully in her clogs across the uneven ground, peering into the dark; Nan has surprisingly good night vision for someone her age. Howard is alone, not commiserating with the dead.
“It’s time to come in,” she says, hoping this simple statement will be enough to induce him to stand. Nan is tired. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow will be even longer.
Howard shakes his head.
“It’s quite late. I think you should get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” he says. “I’ll sleep here. No more rooms. I need space. Look at those stars, will you? No more walls. I’m finished with walls.”
Resisting the unkind temptation to roll her eyes, Nan thinks how drunk people are the most stubborn weeds of all. What is she supposed to do, drag him across the lawn? She carefully lowers herself, making so much noise groaning and mumbling at the effort that Howard comes to his knees to help ease her to sit, though he does waver slightly to do so. Close like this, Nan realizes the smudge on his cheek she had thought was dirt is actually a bruise. When he catches Nan staring, he turns away.
How fitting that the lilacs, long devoid of their May flowers, smell so strongly of them tonight. This is wrong, but then again, her garden hasn’t been right forever; it’s not a topic she can examine at the moment. Instead she concentrates on the foxglove. Trying to forget its disturbing implications, she remembers instead the lines from Christina Rossetti’s poem: And the stately foxglove/Hangs silent its exquisite bells.
It is with great reluctance that Nan pulls herself away from this pleasant rumination to fix her eyes on the bruised Howard, who sits staring glumly into the space he says he desires.
“All my life. Walls,” Howard says. “Walls in rooms and walls in minds. Walls in bodies. Walls.”
Nan nods. Just because he is drunk doesn’t mean the boy makes no sense.
“I am so sick of walls. I just realized.”
“Yes, well,” Nan says. “Being a poet, you will notice such things.”
“Not everyone thinks I’m a poet. My parents think I should be a doctor. My father—never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Did Howard’s father give him that bruise? Of course, Nan thinks with despair. Why else would he be hiding out here with a bunch of old women and a girl he doesn’t know?
“I’m going to tell you something I’ve hardly told anyone,” Howard says.
Nan prepares to act surprised at the secret Mavis has already revealed. She closes her eyes, trying to send him courage. After all, Nan is well aware of how dangerous secrets can be, how they have a way of taking over an entire life.
“You know what I think about mortality?”
“What about mortality?” Nan asks, confused by the unexpected turn.
“Okay, I know those movies about vampires have been really popular and shit. Excuse me.”
“That’s quite all right, dear.”
“But mortality is—I think it’s awesome!”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“Doesn’t it make everything matter?” Howard asks.
Nan leans back, blinking against the dark.
“I probably shouldn’t try to explain right now. I think I might be a little drunk. Am I shouting?”
“Yes, dear, you are.”
Howard leans so close Nan can taste the wine on his breath, which she considers a pleasant sensation.
“I dream words, you know,” he whispers. “Pages and pages of poetry.”
Nan doesn’t know what to say. How strange is it to discover this boy who dreams poetry sitting in her yard, to have Mavis and Ruthie in her house after all this time, when her life has been so dull! Nan’s bottom feels damp, and, in spite of the heat, her bones are cold, but how nice it is to have the taste of wine on her tongue rather than the bitter flavor of ash.
“I wish I knew what to do,” Howard says. “Some people are just so certain, you know? Sometimes I think I’d like to be a doctor, and sometimes I think no, I want to write.”
“Well, why do you have to choose? Why can’t you be a doctor and a poet?”
“Mavis? You know Mavis? She says I have to choose one career, or I’ll be mediocre at both.”
“Listen to me, Howard. Mavis doesn’t know everything. None of us do. We muddle through the best we can, but in the end, all the people with ideas of how you should live your life are going to be gone, and you’ll be staring into the mirror, looking at an old man’s face, wondering how he got there. The question you have to ask yourself is: Did that old guy have a happy life?”
Howard nods as Nan speaks; he continues to nod even when she is through. He nods far longer than necessary, then stops abruptly. “But how do I know? What will make me happy? In the end?”
“It’s starting to rain. Come inside. I’ll make a bed for you on the couch.”
As Howard helps Nan stand, she realizes, with a sudden ache, how long it’s been since she’s been touched by a man, especially a young one with a strong grip. “You know, Howard, you’re lucky to be living in this time when people are so accepting of differences.”
“I can’t believe she told everyone. And they aren’t all so accepting.”
The rain falls swiftly now, though the drops are soft. Howard tries to speed Nan along, but she is taking her time of it. Her clothes dampen against her skin; her hair fl
attens against her head, a few wisps wet against her face.
Why, this night! This night! Nan thinks. She stops so suddenly Howard almost stumbles over her, though he rights himself.
Nan looks up at the night sky, closing her eyes against the rain. Howard hangs on her elbow like a burr she picked up in the garden, until she shakes him off.
“You’re getting wet,” he says. “We should go in.”
What is the power of rain to make Nan feel young again? She doesn’t know. Is there something in the water, in the wine, in the dark, or is it all in her head? She doesn’t care what the explanation is. “Make memories.”
“What?”
“How do you know what will make you happy? In the end? Ask yourself what kind of memory you’re making.”
He is squinting through the rain at her, his hair plastered against his face. “What are you talking about?”
“Remember when you were young, and that old lady hired you to chauffeur her friends from the airport, and you drank too much wine, and stayed out late, and then you danced in the rain?”
“But we’re not…”
Nan waves her arms, barely moving her feet at all. There is the sound of falling rain, and then there is the sound of laughter. She opens her eyes. Howard is dancing, exuberant as the young will be, flailing his arms and legs, fairly wild. It isn’t long at all before the back door slams open and Bay runs down the stairs, spinning in her flowered nightgown, her red hair quickly dampened dark, her skin glistening. The door opens again, and Mavis stands there, saying, “What are you doing? What are you doing?” until she joins them, spinning slow circles and waving her fleshy arms. Ruthie comes to the porch in her robe, buttoned all the way to the lace collar, her face pinched as she scolds them. She begs them to come in, but they continue their dance, until she is at the foot of the stairs, saying, “Are you all crazy?” though she does not go back to the porch or into the house. She doesn’t dance, but she does stop scolding, and before they all go inside, soaked to the skin, trailing puddles into the kitchen, Ruthie smiles.
Nan tells everyone to leave their wet clothes in the downstairs bathroom; they can be dealt with in the morning. She lends nightgowns to Mavis and Howard. They laugh when he comes out of the bathroom wearing his. She offers hot chocolate to everyone, but thank goodness there are no takers, and they all go, yawning, to their separate beds.
It’s one of those steady rains that last for hours. The windows of the old house are open, because it’s also one of those reasonable rains that does not slant sideways into the room or onto the wooden sills. The sheers billow throughout the night, diaphanous as angels.
The sleepers turn to the accompaniment of squeaky springs; there is soft snoring, the occasional sleep-spoken word; it rains, making fairy ponds in the hosta leaves, dropping blossoms from the foxglove; the little bells fall without a sound. The rain pelts the grass until the grass resists no more and gives up its green perfume to the night; the scent wafts through the house, causing the dreamers to wake and, invigorated by the delicious aroma, make plans for escape of one kind or another before once more sinking into the dark.
LILY OF THE VALLEY This highly poisonous plant protects the garden from evil spirits. The distilled water of the flowers is very effective as an application against freckles. Whoever plants lily of the valley invites death into the house.
Though the birds sing dawn’s arrival, Nan is not quite ready to leave the comfort of her feather bed, a luxury she indulged in when she was going through menopause and the nights were long, her mattress hard. Now, all these years later, her body entered into a new rhythm of restlessness, Nan remembers how she slept when she was young, as though it were something easy, no kind of achievement at all. How long has she been staring at the ceiling, pondering how to proceed with the day? It seems her mind keeps spinning like an autumn leaf about to fall.
Nan shakes her head at the dismal metaphor, thus discovering how sore her neck is; actually, she realizes, her whole body hurts worse than usual. Why? Oh yes, dancing in the rain! Foolish. Risky, even. But Nan can’t say she regrets it. What had she said last night about making memories? Before she can recall, she sneezes. Nicholas uncurls from the foot of the bed. Nan sneezes again, and Nicholas, never a good nurse, jumps to the floor.
Nan turns to her nightstand for the box of tissues there, fumbling through all the clutter, the candles, the stones, the feather (remnant of Nicholas’s sad offering), books, an empty glass, the mug with a film of moldy tea at the bottom, and the digital clock, which signals the late hour. As she sneezes a third time, her hand at last finds the tissues. She blows her nose loudly, finally remembering her advice to Howard. How to know what will make you happy in the end? Ask yourself what memory you are making in the present.
As such things go, Nan suspects an oversimplification. But maybe it’s just what’s needed to enjoy this odd reunion. Clearly, Ruthie is out of the question as any kind of guardian for Bay, and Mavis seems an unlikely candidate. Perhaps the best thing to do with this mess is to make a good memory of it. It seems a rather meager ambition, but Nan is old enough to know how much of life is lost. This does not, of course, solve the problem of what to do about Bay when Sheriff Henry arrives. In spite of the early morning heat, Nan shivers at the thought. Suddenly, and for no reason she can measure, Mrs. Desarti’s face comes to mind. Thalia’s mother has always been kind. Perhaps she would make a good guardian. Nan decides this might be an idea worth investigating further, though really, it is almost unbearable to consider. In the meantime, Nan thinks, “Let me have this weekend.” She had not meant to speak, but having done so, she does it again. She says it like a prayer but means it as a bargain with a ghost. In case one is listening.
She eases herself out of bed, surprised that her clogs aren’t there where she always leaves them, before she remembers they are in the bathroom with the other wet things. She grabs a pair of old boots from her closet. They were left in one of the donation boxes, but they are red, so she kept them for herself. She tries to stand on her left foot to put the boot on her right and almost falls in the process. What is she thinking to attempt such a trick? Sighing, she hobbles back to bed, boots in hand. It’s one of those secrets no one ever tells you: when you get old, all the padding wears away from your feet, and you are left to walk on bones.
Nan glances at her reflection in the mirror and lets out a little yelp. Her hair has gone absolutely wild in the night, a result of her little rain dance. There’s nothing to be done for it except a good brushing, and she doesn’t want to squander her time on personal hygiene right now. She shuffles down the hall, thankful to see the other bedroom doors remain closed, a sign that everyone else is still asleep.
Nan is neither surprised nor alarmed when she finds the sheets and blanket neatly folded on the couch in the parlor, Howard nowhere in sight. The headache he most likely suffers from this morning can be alleviated by time or the herbal remedy Nan has had memorized for decades, but his disdain for walls can only be treated by wandering. Nan sighs on Howard’s behalf. The poet’s journey, while often quite interesting, is never an easy one.
Actually, Nan feels the vague beat of a headache herself. She has had so many lately, she is not sure whether to attribute this one to a disturbing pattern or to last night’s party. Either way, she decides to step outside before she makes the coffee. She cherishes the idea of having a little quiet time to herself on the porch.
Later, Nan will struggle to explain how she didn’t notice immediately everything was wrong. She settles for the fact that she was focused on the sky, which, that morning, is the shade of the rare blue poppy.
Oh, Nan thinks when she opens the front door, it’s as though I’m in the center of a flower!
She inhales the wonderful scent of rain, dirt, and grass, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her upturned face before she lowers her chin, opens her eyes, and notices shoes on the porch. This, in itself, is n
ot unusual, but these shoes look entirely random, as if someone simply threw them, which hasn’t happened for a while.
Well, if that’s the worst of it, it’s not so bad, but what’s this? Nan picks up a black-eyed Susan, its stem torn, the usually cheerful flower hanging. Then she sees the ripped purple phlox, the scattered sedum, the beheaded hollyhock. She recognizes the boot from the garden, the toddler shoe with the pink ribbons, which she had lovingly restored for the baby’s breath, the blue dance slipper, its small heel dangling. What happened here? What is this? What has become of the garden? Shoes everywhere, everywhere torn flowers! Can she save any of them? Are they all lost? She kneels down before remembering how much it hurts to do so, shoving dirt into the nearest shoe and stabbing a stem into it.
She is working like this when Ruthie comes to close the front door, and without a word, sets to help, carefully sinking to the ground in her pink nightgown, her copper hair in tubed curls like the mud dauber wasp nest Nan found early that summer on the side of the house. She stops working long enough to give a nod of appreciation, and Ruthie nods in return; they work in silence until Mavis comes to the door and says, “You two do realize how you look?”
Nan observes that Mavis is in no condition to be casting aspersions on anyone’s appearance, with her violet hair wild around her face like one of those troll dolls so popular in the sixties. Ruthie sits on her black-socked heels, pressing dirt around a small daisy in an old loafer, ignoring Mavis, which Nan decides might be the best course. After all, they are saving lives here. She concentrates on stuffing dirt into a little pink shoe. By the time she looks up again, Mavis has joined them, sitting on the ground beside the sedum, the sun shining through the white nightgown, revealing that she has experienced the course of age, her breasts so depleted they look nonexistent, her stomach, a paunch.
