by B. J. Smash
Well, today it had been the same. I don't think it had changed much at all, except there were giant sunflowers ranging from five feet to nine feet tall. It was glorious. I even caught myself smiling a few times, despite my father's disappearance.
But today, we went farther down the paths. There were many, many paths in the garden, and the inside seemed much more spacious and never ending than one might guess from looking on from the outside walls.
Today we went down a row of cherry and magnolia trees. I ran Ian’s wheelchair into a stick on the stone path, not watching where we were going, almost tipping him over, making me steady my balance. He didn't seem to care much. So, we continued to walk on, my head raised to look up at the trees and cherry blossoms floating by whimsically in the soft breeze. The fragrance seemed similar to that of roses.
It was beautiful.
It was serene.
Then, we came to a path that I would have gladly walked right by, but he had me stop.
“Let's continue down this way. I'd like to check on my pigeons,” he said.
I glanced down toward the cherry tree path, longing to continue on in that direction. This was my job though, and I couldn't do as I pleased, despite the fact that I wanted to.
I swallowed hard as I turned back to the path he wanted us to take. It seemed out of place here amongst these beautiful trees, but there sat what looked like a half-dead rowan tree marking the entrance. It was the type of tree one would see at a Halloween haunted house attraction. But those would be fake, and this one was real, planted right into the ground.
I turned and pushed him over a rut in the stoned path. It wasn't easy going, as this path was much craggier.
“Stay to the left side—less ruts. There you go. Just down here a ways. It's not far, don't worry,” he said.
I didn't reply.
Not only did the light seem to fade, but the soft, gentle breeze turned into cool, dank air. It was full of moisture and smelled like rotting wood.
The pretty flowering trees had long disappeared and instead brambles and bushes intertwined together, giving the garden the look of death.
It took me a moment to realize that he was speaking to me.
“I suppose you are wondering what happened to my legs?” he asked.
I hadn't been. I had heard very little about the McCallisters. My father never really mentioned them.
“Umm. What happened?” I asked.
“I fell from a rearing horse, while he was galloping away from something in the woods outside of this garden. It was a long time ago now.” He did something strange then, causing me to stop in my tracks. He grabbed the wheels and started wheeling away from me at quite a fast speed; then, he turned to face me.
I wondered if he could read the shock on my face.
“You see, Miss Seaforth, I do not need your assistance to roam the gardens. I do not need anyone’s assistance.”
Confused at where this conversation was leading, I said, “But I thought Mrs. Lamphry—”
“Mrs. Lamphry is my companion, yes. She plays chess with me and takes naps in her chair. I would never ask her to walk the gardens with me. She would never hush up with her consistent need to gossip. I don't care about who won at beano, and I don't care if her best friend’s daughter, Fannie, is single, or if Mr. Mills gave her the goo-goo eyes.” He gave me a half smile then continued. “Excuse me for ranting—I get carried away sometimes.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“I believe we should start our friendship off with honesty. If I am to be able to trust you, and to have you assist me, we have to be honest with one another,” Ian said.
He flicked a bug from his knee, which wasn't just any bug but a pretty big and nasty spider. It landed on the path and continued crawling into the brush. My skin crawled.
“No, I do not need anyone to walk me around the paths. I've been doing this alone for quite some time. I have arms. Quite strong ones, in fact. However…I do need you to help me. You see, I cannot walk the forest. And that is why you are here.”
“The forest? But why?” I could feel the hairs on my arms rising. I had no intentions of stepping foot in that forest. Gran had forbid me to enter the forest, and also the graveyard that was hidden somewhere on McCallister property.
“Follow me.” He wheeled himself farther down the path around a bend and then another long stretch, and then we were at the end of the garden. Before us stood an iron gate engulfed on either side by stone walls.
To the side sat a couple of pigeon coops, with only two visible pigeons.
“This is Lonnie and Louis. They normally carry out my messages for me, but I fear that they are being intercepted by the wrong hands. You, my dear, will be taking their place.”
“Me? Can't you just use the phone?” I asked.
His shoulders shook a bit while he laughed.
“The persons I commune with do not believe in phones, Miss Seaforth. They dwell in the woods for a reason.”
My stomach dropped.
Chapter Three
It's not as though I don't try to get along with my sister. I do try, but Zinnia has a way of making it nearly impossible sometimes. Especially lately, she falls even more into her own thoughts, never talking to me. And she was snottier than ever.
Still, I continued to put forth the effort to be her friend. After all, our father had just gone missing. The cops had raked the lake he was supposed to be camping at, looking for his body. They had searched the whole area ten times over, even with bloodhounds. Nothing. This should be a time where we stay close, not break apart. And believe me, I wasn't the sentimental type, but I knew that we should help one another cope.
This morning before Gran had left for town, she had made blueberry pancakes and scrambled eggs. There was a side platter of cut apples, celery, and orange slices on the kitchen table. I grabbed one pancake and some eggs then sat down at the wooden table.
My sister had just walked into the kitchen dressed nicely in a short-sleeved white shirt and short black skirt. She didn't take a plate; instead she grabbed a stick of celery and plopped down across the table from me. She hadn't been eating much food lately, and she appeared pale and gaunt.
“How do you like working at the bakery?” I asked.
She sat with the celery sticking out of her mouth, watching me, while she pulled her hair up into a ponytail. Then she removed the celery, only after taking a bite, and said, “It's okay. I'd rather be here, though.” She looked forlornly out the window toward the woods in a dazed way, trying not to further any conversation or even ask me how I liked my job.
“Aren't you going to eat something more than celery?” I asked, concerned.
She pulled her thoughts together and looked me in the eye. “You’re not my mother. She died a long time ago. I'll eat what I want. And look at you—eating breakfast before you head up to eat brunch with Mr. Holier Than Thou. You should watch what you eat.”
I wasn't bothered by what she said about me, but I was stunned by what she called Ian. Also, it wasn't as though I needed to watch my weight. I was obsessed with running every night, and I always had been. If I didn't run my legs would become jittery and I wouldn't be able to sleep. But what could she possibly have against Ian?
“What don't you like about Ian? He's not holier than thou. He's actually quite nice. And…I don't think you've ever even met him,” I said.
“Pfft. I've heard from a good source that he's nothing but a fantastic jerk,” she said bluntly.
“Who told you that?” I questioned.
“Never mind, little sister. You wouldn't understand if I took the whole morning off to explain it to you.”
She got up, grabbed a piece of apple, set it back down, and got ready to leave. My cheeks were flushed, and I began to say a few things that I probably shouldn't have.
“You are the one that thinks they are better than everyone. You're always telling me to watch what I eat. You're always implying that I'm stupid. I've always gotten
better grades than you and without even trying.” I slammed my fork down on the table and stood up.
Aunt Cora just happened to walk in, all fresh and cheery faced, as I finally said, “And you'll never get any friends with that cocky attitude, you stupid pea brain.” It was something I shouldn't have said. Zinnia never made many friends at school.
The smile on my aunt’s pretty face vanished and was replaced by shock.
“You shouldn't talk to your sister like that, Ivy,” she said.
“I shouldn't—I shouldn't…” I couldn't even finish my sentence.
Zinnia walked out the front door, but not before giving me a sly half smile and calling over her shoulder, “I'll be waiting for you in the car, Auntie Cora.”
“I'd like to stay and talk about this but I have a doctor's appointment in a few minutes and I still have to drop Zinnia off at the bakery. Maybe we'll have a good chat tonight, eh?” Aunt Cora tried to sound firm, yet her voice wavered. She hated confrontation—unless it was with her sister, Aunt Clover.
“Does my hair look all right?” she asked, changing the subject. “I just got a new cut. I think it makes me look old.” She patted her brown hair.
“You don't look old, Aunt Cora. You’re, what, thirty-eight? You look like you're in your twenties,” I answered. Her medium-length crop cut made her look younger, if anything.
“Oh”—she giggled—“thank you. Well, I must be off. I have to make my appointment or I'll be sitting there all morning.” She turned and left the house, shutting the door ever so quietly.
Life with Aunt Cora. What could she possibly be going to the doctor's office for this time? It was well known that Aunt Cora was a hypochondriac. She had a bee sting once and thought it was cancerous. She always thought she had an ingrown toenail, and she would never ever even consider sitting on a foreign toilet—even with a seat cover—for fear of other people’s butt germs.
She had a fear of becoming an old maid, and you could see the jealousy in her eyes every time Aunt Clover talked to her fiancé on the phone.
My father called her “Cautious Cora.” Her real name was Coriander Belle Seaforth. She didn't particularly like being named after an herb; Gran had a thing for plants, flowers, and herbs, and all of us—including us grandkids—had either a plant, flower, or herb name. So, Aunt Cora shortened her name.
Aunt Clover had the best name. It brought a smile to my face every time I heard it, which was often. Every time Aunt Cora complained to Aunt Clover about how she didn't do right in the café kitchen, Aunt Cora would use it. “Clover Sweet Pea Seaforth,” she'd say, “must you always leave trails of flour on the floor?”
Now, Aunt Clover was the opposite of Aunt Cora's persnickety ways. And you couldn't get her to the doctor's unless she actually broke something, like a leg. She had a wild side—well, compared to Aunt Cora. She dyed her pixie-cut hairstyle blonde and drove a motorcycle in the summer months and a snowmobile in the winter months, and she liked to play poker with the guys. She had more speeding tickets than shoes in her closet, or so it seemed. And that was her passion: collecting shoes.
One thing was for certain about Aunt Cora, and that was that she loved to tell Aunt Clover what to do, how to do it, and sometimes when to do it, which reminded me of Zinnia and myself. Just thinking about it made me fume.
***
I ran all the way up the big hill to the McCallister house, stopping at the gate to push the entry button; I paused to give it a swift kick to vent some of my anger, which backfired on me for the fact that my shoe got caught between two rails. Hopping on one foot, I tried to free the entangled foot, but the gate automatically began to open. Looking around, I spotted the gatekeeper who wasn't there yesterday. I pulled my foot from my shoe, backing out of the way until the gate finally opened.
Slightly embarrassed, I retrieved my shoe, walked through the entrance, and put it back on. It had rained this morning; my sock was wet, and as the clouds rolled in, it looked like more rain was to come.
“Shouldn't be kicking at the gate, miss. You'll hurt yourself—not the gate,” said the gatekeeper. He had a receding hairline of gray hair and must have been in his sixties. His jolly face was trying not to laugh at me.
“Thanks for the advice.” I sped off toward the front door, trying to forget that that ever happened.
As I rang the doorbell, it occurred to me to check the time. It was 10:15 a.m. In my rush to get out of the house, I'd gotten here too early.
I wanted to sit on the stairs and wait, but given that I had already rang the doorbell, Mrs. Pumbleton answered promptly.
“Come in, come in! Oh, you're here a few minutes early. No matter. You can just wait in the sunroom, or better yet, sit in the garden if you'd like.”
“I'll sit in the garden. Thank you,” I said.
She walked me through the elegant foyer and into the gorgeous sunroom, down the marble-tiled floor, past the koi pond, and through the French doors to the head of the garden. I sat down on the bench to bird-watch.
“Mr. McCallister will be down precisely on time, so don't expect to see him a minute beforehand. Would you like some tea while you wait?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I'll wait.” I smiled up at her as she turned and left the garden.
Sitting in the garden it occurred to me that the clouds were gone, and there was no sign of rain anywhere. It was as glorious and sunny as the day before. I could have sworn there had been rain clouds out moments ago.
I closed my eyes to enjoy the heat on my face. While I was pondering how the storm clouds just up and disappeared, I heard a noise, like footfall.
My eyes popped open to see the backside of a young woman walking away from me and down a path full of blooming flowers. She had short, curly brown hair and wore a short yellow cotton dress. As she walked away, she looked to the side as though she were saying something to me. No words came out. I suddenly felt nauseous as she continued to walk on, for the fact that it wasn't me at all she was talking to. She was talking to the air beside her.
She leaned into the air as though a person walked beside her, her arm up as though around someone’s shoulders, each movement ballet-like. Uncannily, she leaned far into the air, and never toppled over. She would laugh audibly; when she went to speak, no words came out. As she laughed and cajoled with this invisible being, she never noticed me sitting on the bench.
And then it happened as “they” were to round a bend in the path. She glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled the most eerie smile a person could summon, disappearing around the hydrangeas.
I didn't sit there for very long after that. I jumped up and speed walked into the sunroom, staring over my shoulder the whole time and expecting her to jump back out, grab me, and haul me off to hell.
Mrs. Pumbleton in her competent way brought along the tea as soon as she saw me slumping at the table.
“Everything okay, Ivy?” she asked.
“Oh yes, everything is fine,” I lied.
She poured me a steaming hot cup of tea, and as I picked up the cup my hand shook, spilling some on the spotless white place mat. “Oh…I'm sorry,” I said, wiping it with a napkin. Surprisingly there were paper napkins present—and it's a good thing, too. I had spilled more than I thought as it trickled down onto the table.
“Are you sure you're all right? Did you…see something?” Mrs. Pumbleton asked.
There wasn't any sense in keeping it to myself, so I said, “Um. I thought I saw someone…out there in the garden. That's all.”
“Oh! Well, you might see someone from time to time. It just takes some getting used to. Not to worry,” she said.
I planned on asking her about the young woman, but Ian appeared, evidently overhearing our conversation. “Not to worry about what?”
“Ivy has seen someone in the garden.” Mrs. Pumbleton shot him a sideways glance.
“Have you now?” he said as he pulled himself from his wheelchair and into a seat. He looked just as dignified as he did yesterday. His short
dark hair was combed perfectly to the side, and he was clean-shaven in a black short-sleeved shirt.
“Mrs. Pumbleton, I see you've made me steak this morning! Glorious steak. I love the stuff.”
“I knew you'd enjoy it!” Her face beamed.
“Mrs. Pumbleton, will you call the antique store and check on my purchases?” Ian asked.
“That won't be in yet—” she started to say.
“Mrs. Pumbleton,” Ian said with a bit of an edge.
“Oh yes, yes, certainly,” she said.
I took it that that was her cue to leave us. She hurried off, and he smiled at me as he placed a cloth napkin over his lap.
“I shan't say too much in front of Mrs. Pumbleton. She is quite similar to Mrs. Lumphry as far as nosing about in one’s matters. But with Mrs. Pumbleton, you'll never have to worry about such things as gossip. Now, what were you saying?”
“I, um…saw a woman in the garden,” I said.
“Young or old?” he asked. He took a bite of steak and chewed thoughtfully.
“Young. A young woman.” I couldn't help but wonder if he had women running all though his garden. What did he mean by young or old?
“Ah, yes. That would be my sister. She stays in the garden, and she never comes out. Well, very rarely does she come out,” he said, swallowing and then giving me another smile. His muscular forearms leaned on the table.
I thought for a moment and wondered how much I should pry. I wasn't one to ask a lot of questions about people's personal matters, but this time I couldn't resist. After all, I didn't want him to think I was nosy like Mrs. Pumbleton and Mrs. Lamphry.
“Why doesn't she come out of the garden?”
“She doesn't like to. She sleeps under a willow tree in the far east side of the garden, out by the third pond,” Ian said.
