SHADOW OF WHIMSY

by ANN HYMES

  Theresa laughed. “The cupboard is bare, Gypsy. There hasn’t been a good crumb available here in a long while. Let’s see the rest of the place, and then I’ll bring in our food from the car.”

  She stepped into the dark adjacent room, with her dog close at her heels.

  Theresa’s hand found the push buttons for the light as easily as if she’d done it a thousand times. The room was sparsely furnished. In the center was a long table with a white top; ten or twelve chairs lined the sides. A wooden highchair with a child’s silver cup on the tray sat against the wall. Above it was a large portrait in a heavily gilded frame. Theresa felt pulled towards the picture as if drawn by a magnet.

  People and events were coming together too quickly. Lack of introduction and instant familiarity blended like swirls of custard. Her heart knew these faces, but her memory gave no sound to their voices or feel of their touch. The portrait depicted a woman relaxing comfortably in an oversized, upholstered chair, surrounded by blue and white striped pillows. On the arm of the chair perched a smiling young girl of ten or twelve, leaning against the woman. Her small hand was cradled in the woman’s hands, resting in her lap. They looked utterly content and happy.

  Theresa clicked on a small light hanging over the picture and bent forward to look at it more closely. “Hello, Grandmother,” she said aloud. She stared at the figure of the seated woman, whose chestnut hair and large, mischievous eyes looked not at all like her daughter’s. Emily’s hair was dark and straight. She wore a fuzzy blue sweater with matching skirt, and her leg dangled easily over the arm of the chair as if she often sat that way with her mother.

  Behind the two figures in the portrait was an open window with curtains flapping in the breeze and a distant sailboat on a broad expanse of calm, blue water. Theresa tried to read the name of the boat, but the letters were too small; it appeared to be two words. The entire scene was one of peace and sunlight. She fantasized putting herself into the portrait, clasping hands with her mother and grandmother, sharing the sense of acceptance and completeness she saw in their eyes. Could she spread her wings without knowing more of her roots? She stared into the eyes of the portrait and wondered for the first time whether she had made the right decision to come here. Whimsy Towers was their story; she and Gypsy were disturbing the dust.

  The dining room table caught her attention as she ran her hand across the cool surface. The top was a huge piece of white marble, not smooth like a tombstone, but slightly rough, like the feel of an orange. Subtle shades of gray whirled in random patterns. Chiseled in large, rounded letters along one side were the words “TABLE OF THE MUSES.” The top rested on six wooden bases, carved like sections of a totem pole. Faces and birds and nonsense figures peered out in all directions. It was an extraordinary table, and Theresa wondered how many men would have been required to carry such a slab of marble. Did it come from Italy? Did Emily’s real father send it? And who were the muses?

  New revelations were creating new questions for Theresa, and she was beginning to feel tired from the long day. Suddenly, she remembered she had promised to call Kevin. She glanced at her watch and realized he would be getting worried. She was not good at keeping track of time. Her days of free-lance writing and illustrating were open spaces for creative work, not chopped into time segments dictated by habit. Kevin had given her the watch, probably in hopes that she would notice how a day was outlined or that mealtimes had a certain regularity. She rarely wore it.

  Stepping back into the kitchen, she spotted a telephone on a round table in front of a window. Gypsy followed her and lay contentedly at her feet, stretched out across a pattern of ivory-colored doves in the carpet.

  “Oh, Kevin, you wouldn’t believe this place! It’s so beautiful, and I’m a little overwhelmed already.”

  “What kind of overwhelmed? What’s the house like? Any surprises?”

  “It’s tucked away, off the road. Very private. And Kevin …” She paused, feeling tears starting to form as she blinked. “I’ve seen pictures of my mother. I look a lot like her.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but it’s been quite a day. The house appears to be in good condition, but I’ve only seen the first couple of rooms. It’s half home and half art gallery! Gypsy seems very relaxed. She made a run for some birds but is sleeping on the only ones she’ll likely get near; they’re woven in the carpet!”

  “I’m glad the phone works. Did you get some food? Do you have what you need?” Kevin was good with loose ends and details. It was the big picture that often eluded him, but Theresa could hear his concern.

  “I passed some little shops on my way through town, but I imagine the bigger stores are farther out. Tomorrow I’ll explore. It’s a really beautiful area, and the ocean is so close to the house.”

  She struggled to lift the window sash. “I bet you can hear the ocean yourself. Hold on.” The window slid up; Theresa felt cool, moist air and heard the sound of waves lapping on the shore or against pilings or rocks near the boathouse. Holding the phone against the screen, she called in the background, “Hear it?”

  But Kevin could not hear the water. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Tell me about the house? Do you like it? Any ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” She laughed. “I think I’m the ghost! I’m the one out of place here, stepping into someone else’s life, looking at their things—like an intruder moving tentatively through a stranger’s house.”

  “Do you feel comfortable staying there alone?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Though I haven’t seen the whole house yet, I have my ferocious watchdog.” She looked down at her sleeping companion. Gypsy’s gray hairs were only slightly noticeable in the fur around her mouth and on her paws. She was still a shiny golden color, with shades of blonde disguising the gray. They had bought her as soon as Kevin got out of law school, and they doted on her like the parents of an only child. Gentle and sweet-natured, Gypsy showed no preference between them.

  Kevin laughed. “Oh, right! I know that mean dog. She’d certainly scare anybody away with her snoring! Do you have any neighbors?”

  “Not that I can see from the house. Whimsy Towers is really protected behind trees and runaway bushes. Some kind of wild rose, I think. But these two amazing towers stick up above the roofline, and I bet there’s quite a view. I’ll let you know in the daylight.”

  “Well, I’m glad you arrived safely, Theresa. I’ve been thinking about you and thinking about our marriage. We’re playing for high stakes here, and I do want to make us work. Call me tomorrow?”

  “I will.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight” repeated like an echo in Theresa’s head. She was not used to being away from Kevin. They didn’t have much practice in farewells or reassuring expressions of devotion. Their life together rumbled along with familiar routine and steadiness—no flurries of emotion, no passionate reunions after time apart. They didn’t know about separation. She was on her own for the first time, stirring up the deep waters of familiarity. Neither Kevin nor her father could hold her hand—or keep her back.

  As Theresa put down the phone, she breathed in deeply the moist ocean air, closing her eyes to shut out any distraction from the sweetness of wild roses. She felt strangely content. For a few minutes she lingered at the open window, eyes closed, her thoughts reaching forward and backward as she tried to knot them in the center—the present moment. She felt at home.

  Ducks made low, squawking sounds as they settled into the marsh, and the cool night air tingled her upturned face, trying to break the spell of blind reverie. The breeze began to take on the faint sound of distant music, like heaven’s guitars hidden in the blackened clouds. At first lulled by dreamy comfort, she accepted the eerie, almost melancholy sound. But when she opened her eyes, the music continued. She looked out the window and saw a light in the direction of the boathouse. Perhaps someone is out for a moonligh
t cruise, she thought. Someone alone with his thoughts and the music that comforts him. It did not occur to her that perhaps it was lovers alone with music that arouses them.

  Chapter Four

  THERESA CLOSED the window and walked back toward the dining room, not stopping to notice paintings or portraits or shelves loaded with trinkets. She wanted to see the rest of the house. There would be time, plenty of time, to retrace her steps; this house was hers now. As she passed the dining room table, she undid her watch and laid it on the cold, hard surface.

  The next room was a surprise. Expecting to see a living room, she found long wooden tables with jars and tubes of paint and paintbrushes of various lengths in careful rows. Half a dozen easels stood throughout the room, several holding unfinished paintings and the others empty, like stiff and silent caretakers. In one corner was a low easel. Theresa walked slowly towards it. In childish lettering, with each letter a different bright color, the name Claude was spelled across the top.

  Who was Claude? She had never heard her father say the name. She ran her fingers across the letters, as if hoping their mystery could be revealed through touch. The other easels had no names. They were turned in ways that would allow the artist to see out a window or toward a platform where a model might have posed.

  Against one wall was the oversized chair she had seen in the dining room portrait. The blue and white pillows looked faded and limp, but Theresa sank into the chair and pulled them around her, feeling their softness. The dusty smell of old upholstered furniture and the clutter of paints and paintings around the room soothed her and let her thoughts slip off to sleep.

  It was Gypsy that startled her back from dozing, and Theresa awoke with the momentary confusion of being in a strange place. She had been dreaming of Kevin. They were driving on an ice-layered road in Virginia. Trees bent and dipped with the impossible weight of snow, branches snapping and falling in the path of the car. She repeatedly called out to him to be careful, but he drove silently on, calmly avoiding every obstacle and remaining oblivious to the deafening crash of trees around him. As she frantically reached over to grab his arm, she realized he was wearing only a bathing suit! Tightening her grip, she felt the hairs on his arm between her fingers as she yelled, “Kevin, stop the car! Stop!”

  Gypsy jumped and yelped as she pulled away from the chair, and Theresa’s hand fell from gripping the dog’s back. Tufts of blonde fur stuck between her fingers, and Gypsy’s coat was ruffled and pulled in odd directions toward her tail, as if a bird had foraged around to stir up the makings of a nest. The old dog moved several feet from the chair to lie down again, keeping her eyes fixed on Theresa.

  The room was dark, chilly, and not yet separate from the dream of being with Kevin. Theresa’s body, still curled awkwardly in the large chair, felt stiff and tense. She blinked and stretched; pillows fell to the floor. The nap had slowed her tour of the house, and she pulled her reluctant thoughts from her icy dream to the present. The room seemed smaller than just an hour before. The easels cast long purple shadows on the floor, and curtains hung like ghosts at the windows. She remembered them from the portrait of her mother and grandmother. No longer billowy and fresh, they too had lost life.

  She stood and walked to each window, carefully removing the once-white curtains. Gypsy didn’t follow her or even move until Theresa said aloud, “Guess we’re beginning to redecorate.” Her voice seemed to signal a return to normalcy for the dog. With brisk step, Theresa carried an armload of yesterday’s curtains to the kitchen, and her tousled companion followed with jaunty little steps of anticipation.

  “Hungry?” she asked over her shoulder. “Let’s bring in some food; I’m starved.”

  A slow-moving caravan of dark clouds had blotted out the earlier evening stars, and the moon lacked sufficient brilliance to pierce them. Theresa looked toward the ocean. She again saw a light in the direction of the boathouse. She couldn’t make out the surroundings in the dark and wondered whether the light had moved or whether her sense of direction was skewed. She listened for music but heard only the unfamiliar night sounds of owls and a loon.

  The sky spread out above her like a frayed and porous canopy, arching over Whimsy Towers with a protective curl. Theresa watched the drifting somber clouds and shuddered. Part of her wished that Kevin were here to share this adventure, and part of her wanted to keep it safe and separate and sheltered from the life she had with him. He never saw faces in clouds or stopped to breathe in the air of new places. For him a house was a house, not a touchstone of the soul.

  It took only a few minutes to unload the groceries. Gypsy bounded across the expanse of lawn, darting from the car to shadowy bushes and back again. Occasionally she did a run and roll, lingering with her legs in the air and squirming to scratch her back. With each trip to the house, Theresa called, “I’ll be right back,” as if reassuring a child in strange surroundings. But Gypsy showed no fear of the unknown. Exploration was her game, and her fenced yard in Virginia had just lost its boundaries.

  Theresa carried her suitcases and blankets into the house and whistled for Gypsy. With her familiar things strewn around the kitchen carpet and on the couches and tables, the blending of past and present had begun. The visitors were here to stay. At least for awhile. She opened her cooler and pulled out a ham and cheese sandwich, with mustard-covered tomato and sprouts oozing from the side.

  “Not exactly tidy travel food!” She laughed, poking the runaway sprouts back between the bread. She handed Gypsy a large dog biscuit and settled down with her sandwich and an apple in front of the silent fireplace. She imagined a crackling fire, with marshmallows and chestnuts roasting. Her eyes focused on the bits of pottery and ceramic cemented in with the fieldstone. Colorful tiles had drawings of stick figures and simple flowers under glowing suns. Theresa stood up to read the letters in the corner of one tile. They spelled out Claude in irregular sizes and uneven spacing. The picture on the tile was a solitary boat; above it was a black cloud.

  “Ready for the next level?” Theresa called to Gypsy, leaving the last bites of sandwich on a pile of magazines. “Let’s see what the sleeping arrangements are.”

  The wide staircase turned sharply half way to the second floor, allowing the climber to suddenly see a broad open hall straight ahead. Each step brought more of the space into view. With only the backlight from the stairwell, she could see massive lattice arches and the tops of statuary. When she reached the floor, she saw a switch; and with a click, soft light filled the room from no discernable source. Above the door was a beautifully hand-painted sign that said “OUTDOORS INDOORS.”

  Statues and garden furniture were placed around the room. Large urns filled with dirt stood prominently in the center, surrounding a dry fountain with plump cherubs holding water buckets. Small empty planters and pots of various shapes were scattered in clusters, but there was not a sign of a plant, even a dead one. At one window was a pedestal birdbath, and Theresa noticed that the window sill was scratched and pecked. Child-sized chairs mingled with elegant iron benches and a massive sundial that had the greenish look of submerged bronze.

  In the center of the ceiling was a large skylight, covering most of the area of the room. Dozens of crystal stars on invisible string hung around the edges, catching the light and throwing it back. The room was a garden party waiting to happen. With a bold brush of lush greenery and a tray of lemonade, Theresa could imagine laughing and relaxing in the warmth of this sunny hideaway. Outdoors indoors. Perhaps Grandmother had discovered the answer to long Cape Cod winters.

  From the deserted garden, several doors led to other rooms. The first one appeared to be the master bedroom. It was large, yellow, and chock-full of beautifully carved antique furniture. Walnut or cherry, wondered Theresa, as she rubbed her hand along the curved edges. She was not surprised to see paintings on all the walls. She was beginning to realize that paintings were more than decoration at Whimsy Towers; they were the
heart of the place—and the bones.

  Two other bedrooms were comfortably furnished, and Theresa was thinking about where she might like to sleep as she stepped into a small adjoining room. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened. She could not move forward. Nursery rhyme characters and pudgy animals danced over the walls in colors still brilliant after thirty-four years. Flowers were painted on vines that climbed to the ceiling. Clowns held balloons and cupcakes. This was the first room of her childhood, the nursery that welcomed her home as a new baby, the room created by her mother and grandmother that her father had described—the room left behind when life began anew in Virginia.

  A white crib and white furniture painted with rag dolls still stood ready. Theresa wondered why the room remained intact. The furniture looked a little nicked and tired, and she smiled to think that she must have been rough as a youngster, but she had no memory of it. She felt love in the room—the love given to a baby and the love of gratitude for the giving.

  Theresa walked back to the master bedroom, stretched out on the large bed, and cried herself to sleep. She spent her first night at Whimsy Towers fully dressed, on her grandmother’s Double Wedding Ring quilt, her dog sleeping peacefully at the door. All the lights in the house were still on, lighting up the shadows of the past.

  Theresa awoke to the sound of birds, not faint chirping, but bold, jungle sounds. Bright light filled the room as a new day caught the sun rising slowly from the ocean. She lay still, remembering her first impressions of Whimsy Towers. She wondered how many times she must have sat or played on this bed with her grandmother or parents. She felt the bumpy hand-stitching of the large, interlocking wedding rings on the quilt beneath her. Its colorful fabric was pieced together with delicate precision and order—each piece belonging to the overall pattern, each piece fitting perfectly into the balance of the design.