by ANN HYMES
The windows in the room were tall and had no curtains. Grandmother must not have felt the need for privacy or sleeping late in a darkened room. Birds signaled the call to rise; the day began with nature’s clock. The tops of oak trees brushed against the window panes, with small branches squeaking across the surface. Theresa watched the gentle motion of new leaves. The rhythm of the swaying branches stirred memories of her childhood tree house in Virginia.
“Be careful up there,” her father had called when he saw her leaning too far off the unfinished platform. “Stay back from the edge until I have the walls up.”
She liked standing at the edge, feeling close to the tree’s enormous limbs and looking down with the same view as the birds. No walls separated her from the sensation of living in the branches, and she dared herself to look down without holding on.
Theresa knew she had been too reckless as a child. She had wanted the tree house to be higher in the old oak. She loved to climb its gnarled branches and hide in the thick clusters of leaves, above the safety of the tree house. When strong northern winds blew, she crawled toward the narrowing end of the branches and held on with the fearless determination of a bronco rider. The wind whipped through her hair until it almost stood on end, and she gripped the coarse bark so tightly it left marks on her fingers.
Still swaying in her thought, Theresa absently watched a gaggle of blackbirds fly out of sight from the tree at the window. Unconsciously, she’d wrapped her fingers tightly around the soft folds of the quilt, pulling it up snugly on both sides of her. Her hands ached from the strain. She relaxed her grip and thought how the blackbirds might return to their tree, but others who had sung their songs here were gone, with no return. Rising from her grandmother’s bed, Theresa instinctively smoothed the covers and then stretched out her fingers, rubbing her hands together to loosen the tension.
“Breakfast?” she called to Gypsy, who was standing ready at the door.
They emerged from the bedroom into the garden room, and Theresa stopped to notice how light filtered down through the skylight, resting on statues and casting gentle shadows through the lattice. Plants would love this space, she thought; and she wondered how foolish it would be to buy plants for just the short time she would be staying.
Gypsy hurried down the stairs ahead, and Theresa followed her without stopping as she retraced her steps from the night before. When they got to the kitchen, Theresa turned off the lights and headed for the porch. As she opened the door to go outside, she bumped something that fell off to the side. She looked down and saw a corncob, partly chewed at one end. Kernels of corn and circles of cut carrots were scattered on the steps and in the dirt.
As Gypsy sniffed eagerly around the scene, Theresa picked up the moist corncob. “Looks like someone wants to share dinner with us. Or breakfast.”
She could understand how a stray corncob might end up at her door with a squirrel or raccoon, but the precisely cut carrot pieces were troubling. Theresa looked around her, as if the answer would become suddenly apparent. Instead, what greeted her was the incredible beauty of nature’s wonder and welcome.
A carefully mowed green carpet of lawn stretched toward the water. Only a few small trees stood on this side of the house, providing an unobstructed, broad view. A slight inlet or cove served as a buffer for the land from the ocean, and the strip of ground that protected the inlet was fortified with huge rocks in irregular clumps. As she walked across the grass, Theresa saw wooden steps leading to the boathouse she had glimpsed at dusk. It sat on sturdy pilings and had a small window facing the main house.
Far behind the weathered building were lingering bits of orange and pink clouds, laced with yellow, that hung on the morning horizon. She watched the changing colors as she found her way to the door on the side and opened it cautiously. Inside was one large room. Several life preservers were piled in the corner, and a collection of oars and paddles leaned against the rough wooden wall. There was no other evidence of boats or boating.
A bed with rumpled sheets and blankets looked as though it had been recently used. Next to the bed was a low table with a large portable radio and tape player. Cassette tapes were lined up in careful piles, each facing the same direction in order to display the titles. Except for the bed, the room looked orderly and clean.
A large round oak table with four straight chairs stood in the middle. On it were old sports magazines and books of poetry by Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost. An apple, two carrots, and a knife lay on a plate. Theresa froze. Carrots. She turned to face the door and heard quickening steps on the wooden planks outside. Before she could react or decide where to hide, Gypsy appeared in the open doorway, wagging her tail.
“Oh, Gypsy!” she gasped. “You scared me half to death!”
As she turned to leave, Theresa passed a large, stuffed chair that faced a window looking out on the water. Next to it was an upside-down crate used as an end table, with several unopened cans of soda and bags of chips. She stooped down to read the expiration date on the bags. It was then she realized she was not alone at Whimsy Towers.
Chapter Five
“HELLO? YES, I’ll wait,” Theresa said, trying to sound calm and businesslike. Her heart still pounded, partly from the fright in the boathouse and partly from running all the way back across the lawn to the phone. Gypsy could hardly keep up with her.
She had spoken to the bank trustees many times since her father’s death and the revelation that she had inherited her grandmother’s property. They had settled the real estate by mail and agreed that she would come into the bank to receive things from the safe deposit box. Grandmother had left some jewelry and letters, nothing that couldn’t wait for Theresa’s arrival in Chatham. But her question could not wait for a trip to the bank.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Theresa Crandall.”
“Well, hello. Are you in town? Is everything in good order at the house? I hope you found it all right.”
“Yes, yes. The house is fine, but … ” She hesitated, wondering how to ask. “Is someone else living here?”
“Someone else? What do you mean? The house has been empty since your grandmother died.”
“I believe someone has been using the boathouse. I found food and things there this morning.”
“Food? We have not given anyone permission to be at your grandmother’s house. After she died, her nurse needed time to relocate, but they moved over a year ago.”
“They?”
“Yes, she had a son. Because of her long service and devotion to your grandmother, we allowed her to stay in the house to keep things going while we held the house in trust for you. She is still in the area but has her own place.”
“Would the caretaker be staying there?” asked Theresa, anxious to make sense of her mystery visitor and to quiet her fear.
“Rick? Not likely. He lives in town and teaches at the community college. Lost his wife a few years back and looks after properties to fill in the extra time. Nice man. We were really sorry about his wife, but I don’t think he’d have any reason to hang around your place. He cut the grass last week, but I collected the keys from him since he won’t need to be checking inside for us anymore. You might like to connect with him about yard work or projects around the house. He’s a good worker.”
“Thanks, I will.” Theresa paused, debating whether to ask this man she’d never met a question that might reveal more than she was ready for. “Just one last question.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know anything about the two towers at the house or why they are painted red and green?”
“I wish I did. I’ve often wondered about that myself.” He laughed. “Your grandmother set up her will and accounts here many years before I came. I understand she was quite a character, decisive and headstrong, but always interested in others. By the time I met her, the bank was already handling her affairs, and she
was pretty confused mentally. But she always smiled and warmly shook my hand, as if I were the most important visitor in the world. The last time I saw her, on a gorgeous, sunny afternoon, she took my arm and whispered, ‘Don’t go sailing today. It’s dangerous.’ I assured her I would not; the water makes me seasick.”
Theresa tried to imagine the beautiful woman with chestnut hair that she saw in the dining room portrait as an aged, frail dowager, out of touch with reality and drifting on a current of lost memory and longing. It saddened her to think her grandmother had no family in her last years. She wondered whether she could have made a difference. And how could her father, the most loving man she knew, turn his back on his mother-in-law during the years when her heart and mind were sinking?
“Thank you,” Theresa stuttered, her voice cracking. “I do appreciate all your help and your taking such good care of the house. I love being here, and I’ll stop in the bank soon to get the safe deposit things. And Rick’s phone number.”
“That’ll be fine. We’ll keep in touch. And if there’s anything funny going on there, call the police. This is a quiet sort of town, but no point taking chances. One other thing, Theresa, just to keep in mind. We have a standing offer to buy Whimsy Towers, if you decide you don’t want to hold onto it. Your grandmother had a good eye, and it’s a valuable piece of property. These buyers have deep pockets, and they’re patient. I told them I’d let you know.”
Theresa hung up and sighed deeply. She was being asked to consider possibilities for the future before she even knew where she fit in the present. Looking around the kitchen, she gathered up items she had brought from the car and put them in the cupboards. She liked the feel of the old cupboard doors, smooth and softened, their painted edges worn to bare wood by the rubbing fingers of the past. She put several bottles of juice and cartons of creamy fruit yogurt from the cooler into the refrigerator. And as she closed the door, her other hand pulled open the adjacent one that revealed the photographs from the night before.
She stared at the faces, trying hard to remember. Such smiles and happiness! The faded black and white memories were not her memories. Theresa could compare only her father as she remembered him with these pictures of a young man so at ease with his family, so comfortable and happy. The pictures of her mother and grandmother were fixed in time, with no attachment to another time or place for her. They were history’s record. These women from her life had played another stage, and there was no encore.
Theresa was particularly drawn to one photograph of her father carrying her on his shoulders along the sandy beach. They were walking toward the cameraperson, her father laughing and Theresa anxiously holding out shells or stones, as if the camera could take them or the photographer was to put the camera down and take the shells or the child. She easily remembered the feeling of riding on her father’s shoulders, but it was through crowds at parades and not along beaches strewn with sea treasures.
He was a quiet man. His life was the raising of his daughter. Theresa realized as never before how difficult it must have been for him to see her go off to college and then to marriage, to let go of another woman that he loved.
She wanted to call Kevin. She wanted to talk about their relationship. She wanted to see hope in their future, but she remembered the pain of their last evening together before she left. They had been in the den, listening to a tape of a piano concerto they both enjoyed. He was working at his desk, and she was sketching aimlessly.
The ice in Theresa’s lemonade had almost melted, diluting the flavor and leaving small bits of ice struggling between soggy mint leaves. She sighed as she took a sip. She could not tell Kevin that her tasteless, watery lemonade was a metaphor for their marriage. She could not tell Kevin much of anything. She wrestled with feelings of suffocation and the desire for emotional intimacy, the need to be herself and still be loved. A bird gives up its freedom of flight to be an object of beauty and wonder, but not willingly. It does not choose to be caged.
“What’s on your mind?” he inquired, without looking up from his work. “You seem lost in thought.”
She hesitated, not sure where, or whether, to begin.
Kevin was balancing the checkbook. “Theresa, don’t you think you could enter the check amounts in the white lines instead of the gray? It throws me off when you skip a space.”
He was serious. Theresa resisted the temptation to get up and leave the room. Avoidance was easier than confrontation, but she would be leaving for several weeks and didn’t want to spend the last evening fuming alone over friction in their marriage.
“What in the world difference does it make?” she asked, putting down her drink with a thump. It splashed onto the table. “There are pages and pages of lines, Kevin; they’re not each allotted to a specific function or check. It really doesn’t matter which color line is used.”
Kevin looked up and responded, as if to a bank customer, “But the white lines are for the check amounts and deposits. The gray lines reflect the balance.” He did not know how to get into the emotion of an issue.
Theresa felt tears welling up. “Finding fault with me over silly things is not healthy for us. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster of approval and disapproval. I cannot always follow instructions that seem obvious to you. The checks and deposits are there, in order.”
“I think you’re over-reacting.”
Theresa took a deep breath and pulled her leg out from under her, causing one of the cushions to fall to the floor. Little irritations build up mountains of hurt. A long, slow series of ten clock chimes urged a cease-fire.
“I don’t think this is really about the lines in the checkbook, Kevin. It’s about flexibility and tolerance. It’s about partnership. I just feel as though I’m heading for a trap at every turn, an opportunity for inadequacy.” She hesitated. “I think you need someone who does not question you and always paints between the lines.”
Theresa went off to bed alone, feeling empty and confused.
• • •
Gypsy was waiting patiently to see where her breakfast would be served. She sat watching Theresa during the phoning and the reverie, but once-a-day eating had its urgency. She rubbed her nose against Theresa’s leg.
“Okay, I get the message, girl. Let’s eat.” She filled the dog’s water bowl and then scooped up a mixture of dry food and dumped it into a yellow plastic bowl. “Bon appetit,” she said as she stroked the dog’s back. Bits of winter fur were already starting to come loose, a sure harbinger of warm weather.
Grabbing a blueberry bagel from a bag, Theresa slipped off to explore the remaining part of the house: the towers. Sunlight streamed through the windows of each room as she headed back upstairs. The paintings she’d seen the night before had new life and intensity. The furniture felt familiar. Every room had views of the ocean, and she stopped often to open windows, looking each time for signs of activity at the boathouse.
When she got to the garden landing, there were no doors leading up to the towers, so she returned to her grandmother’s yellow room. Opening each door that seemed like a closet, she found one that revealed dark-stained stairs that wound upward at sharp angles. Slowly, Theresa climbed the shadowy stairwell. It felt like a vertical tunnel, with light filtering down from above.
“Hello?” she called, and then felt foolish as she heard nothing but her own voice. The unseen was the unknown, but there was no reasonable expectation of meeting anyone in the tower. She wondered for a moment whether this was the red or the green one. The expression “bats in the belfry” darted across her mind, and she looked up as she climbed. A sturdy handrail followed along with the turn of the steps, and Theresa was grateful for a firm grip as she strained her eyes to see what lay ahead.
The steps ended at a platform-like space. In the middle was a huge fixed light, similar to a lighthouse lens. It was cradled in a short chimney structure that had panels of red glass separated by white secto
rs. On one wall, wide French doors opened towards the ocean. Windows of solid-paned clear glass were on the other three walls.
“My grandmother, the lighthouse keeper!” Theresa laughed aloud.
She opened the doors and gingerly tested the small balcony with her foot to see whether it felt secure enough to hold her. She was no longer fond of heights, and insecurity combined with height was an unpleasant prospect. A momentary sensation of looking down from her childhood tree house flashed through her mind. During that period of fearlessness in her life, there had been someone there to warn her of danger.
She remained grounded in the doorway, but the view was spectacular. The ocean used up all her eyes. It drew her in so completely that she didn’t notice she was holding her breath, until she gasped for lack of air.
Small fishing boats were silhouetted against the silver sparkle of the water, each rocking gently with the current. The bows lifted and then dipped as the waves rolled under and then hurried on.
Theresa could see individual fishermen in some of the boats, and she wondered who they were and where they lived and what they were catching. She imagined fathers teaching sons to fish, and each generation telling tales of the sea to the anxious ears of those who followed. She wondered whether her grandmother had developed such an intimate connection to the ocean—and whether she blamed it for the drowning of her only child.
The day was clear, and the rising sun cleaned the sky as it moved higher on the horizon. Theresa closed her eyes and thought of Grandmother Theodosia standing on this balcony, watching her family play on the sandy beach or later staring at the water and yearning for her lost daughter. Whimsy Towers had weathered the sunshine and storms of the northeast coast and the personal seasons of its occupants. The house remained; the seasons would repeat.
