SHADOW OF WHIMSY

by ANN HYMES

  “Considering what?” she asked.

  “He’s what you might call ‘slow,’ not quite natural in his mental development. He had trouble at school, and those were the days when kids like that were called ‘retarded’ and left outside of serious education. Ana schooled him at home and never accepted the idea that he couldn’t have a normal life.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Stormy laughed. “Happened? Well, he’s scrubbin’ down my boat at the moment! He works with me takin’ out charters, handling the lines and doin’ the lifting I can’t manage anymore. Claude’s my right hand and a fine companion, like he was my own grandson. He’s about your age, but simple-like. A good boy.”

  Another piece to the puzzle had fallen into place. In a curious way, Claude had lived Theresa’s life, stepping into her footprints as she disappeared from sight. He’d slept in her bed, read her books, sat in her grandmother’s lap. He was the child of attention and focus; she was a memory, kidnapped from the life that went on without her.

  She was surprised to feel jealous of this boy, now a grown man, but the feeling was quickly uprooted by remembering the years of happiness with her father. She knew now that there were numerous stories scattered from the past, and her father had left her to connect the dots. She was gathering glimpses of family history, and Claude was an unrelated relation. They might have grown up like brother and sister.

  Over two weeks had passed since Theresa arrived on Cape. She spoke regularly with Kevin, almost every day, and she liked sharing news of Stormy and Claude and their relationships to her grandmother. The trip was bearing fruit. It was easy to talk with Kevin about all these revelations; a guilty conscience clears quickly when the guilt is not too deep. She had not seen Rick for almost a week, filling her time with Stormy and getting to know Claude.

  The young man was shy, at first not wanting even to meet her. But Stormy convinced him to come by Whimsy Towers with his mother, so they could all have dinner together. Theresa marveled at how natural the evening felt. The other three people had lived in her house for over thirty years; they knew its every corner and quirk. She was the present hostess, but really more the true guest.

  Each of the visitors sat on a chair or couch with the familiarity of doing it every day. Stormy stretched out his legs on a flowered ottoman and knew just the space to allow for it from the chair. He looked utterly content.

  Ana took a little longer to settle in. She had never called back from the message at the library the week before, and Theresa chose not to mention it.

  “Thank you for your help with my shell search, Ana. It was very successful. Now that I’ve met the giver of the sea treasure, we can hear the story firsthand.” She looked at Stormy.

  In mock irritation, he squirmed and asked, “Is nothin’ private from my life with your grandmother?”

  “Not if I can squeeze it out of you!” Theresa teased. “I have the feeling this is pretty good stuff, something juicy.”

  “It’s a simple story, really.”

  Ana looked down, as if she, too, knew what he was about to tell.

  “Theresa, your grandmother was incredibly beautiful. She was talented, outgoing, giving, fun, and rich. She was everything I was not and never dreamed of being or being around. And yet here I was. She was older than I was by nearly ten years, but two carefree lovers don’t live by the calendar. She wanted me in her life and loved me without a look to the side, but she could never be my wife. Your grandfather was adamant about no divorce.

  “I had only my boat and a few belongings in my apartment. I’d lived out of a duffel bag since being on my own as a teenager. Theodosia gave me a sense of belonging and the gift of tenderness and stability. She saw somethin’ good in me and pulled it out for all the world to share.

  “What could I possibly do for her? Or give her? I could not afford fancy gifts, but I did own one perfect and beautiful thing—a sea shell that I found in the Pacific. Literally found inside a fish. I figured that fish carried the shell around to keep it safe for me, waitin’ to offer it up like the Biblical taxes from the fish’s mouth. Now I had a need for that shell.

  “I wrapped it carefully and gave it to Theodosia on her birthday. I told her I wished it was an engagement ring instead, and for years she referred to it as her ‘engagement shell’! I think in a way that was our commitment ceremony, our special marriage. When your grandfather eventually died, Theodosia was not mentally capable of makin’ decisions. By then we had been together for many years. Our marriage was settled only in our hearts, and so it really can never be terminated by our parting.”

  Theresa sat still, thinking over this poignant story and remembering Kevin’s gift of white roses in college. She had always thought of them as her “engagement roses.” Could their marriage ever regain that sense of urgent love?

  “Have you always been so romantic?” she asked.

  “I’ve never been romantic. It’s just what happens when you love someone and want them to know it.”

  Ana was nodding her head silently, wistfully, almost as if struggling to keep back tears.

  Claude gazed intently at the ceiling, not seeming to follow the story of the seashell.

  “Will you tell me about the painting, Claude?” Theresa asked gently. “Tell me how you painted it.”

  “Ladders. Many ladders,” he answered, rocking slightly on the couch. “Many ladders in a row. Hard to reach angels. Hard to find baby.”

  Theresa stared at the man sitting next to her. His curly hair was not dark like his mother’s but a brownish blend of different shades. His face showed no special expression. Ana watched her watching him.

  “What baby, Claude? What baby is lost?” Theresa continued.

  “Trees try to tell me. Every day I look for her. The water wants her bad.”

  Theresa shuddered.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ana interrupted. “Claude, it’s okay. It’s okay.” She turned to Theresa. “He remembers your grandmother talking of losing her child to the ocean. He wants to find her. He looks for her when he goes fishing with Stormy. Claude hears things in different ways than we do, and he puts thoughts together that do not always make sense. I’m really sorry; he doesn’t mean to upset you.”

  Theresa tried to smile at the sad faces of mother and son, both carrying pain from the past that spilled into the present.

  “I understand. It’s all right. He actually left me a note at the door about looking for a lost baby. And who is Bobby, Claude?”

  Ana laughed, and the mood took a light turn.

  “Bobby? Did he write you about Bobby?”

  Claude quickly grasped this new topic.

  “Bobby here?” he asked.

  “No, dear,” Ana said gently. “Not just now.” She turned to Theresa and continued. “Bobby is a raccoon that started showing up at the house some years ago. He’d sit on the back step while your grandmother had her breakfast on the porch, and before long she had named him and was tossing him her toast. I finally had to sit with her to see where breakfast was headed each morning! She got enormous pleasure from watching him and feeding him, and when she died, Claude continued to leave food. When we moved out of the house, he often came back with scraps. I hope he hasn’t troubled you.”

  Theresa leaned back with a deep sigh of relief. She wanted to ask Claude about being in the boathouse, but she didn’t want to upset Ana. It was clear that her secret visitor was an adult child with a lingering love for where he had grown up.

  “Oh my, no,” she replied. “I’m sure Bobby’s grateful for the continued snacks, and no one’s left me notes since the eighth grade! I didn’t think there was any harm involved. And Claude, I hope to get more notes. Stormy tells me you’re quite a poet. May I see some poems sometime?” She waited. “I like to write, too. My father taught me about writing.”

  As soon as the word ‘father’ came out, she regr
etted it and felt embarrassed, but Claude didn’t seem to notice. His attention was back at the clouds on the ceiling.

  “Cloud boy,” was all he said. “Cloud boy.” And a happy smile came over his face.

  “That’s what your grandmother called him,” Ana said. “In part, I think, because he painted beautiful clouds—she loved his clouds—and partly because she was getting somewhat confused, and ‘Claude’ and ‘cloud’ seemed interchangeable. He really adored her, and she him. I think they were able to communicate in a way that none of us could share. They were kindred spirits in an unforgiving world.” She looked at her son with deep affection as he stared at the ceiling of swirling clouds and angels.

  Theresa had liked Ana at their first meeting but felt this shy woman wasn’t quite able to relax around her. Perhaps because Ana had been in charge of this household for so many years and felt turned out, or perhaps she felt disloyal in talking about the past with her employer dead. Ana’s tenure had begun at Theresa’s departure, so she had no stories to tell about Theresa’s family or their times together. The family Ana knew in the house revolved around a fatherless child and a childless couple. She was polite, reserved. Occasionally Theresa caught Ana staring at her, observing her in a comprehensive way, almost analytically.

  “I guess I’ve changed a bit since you last saw me,” Theresa offered with a smile. “What’s it been? Almost thirty-two years?”

  “Yes,” said Ana quietly. “You and your father were here for just a few months after I came. It was a difficult time, a time of adjustments. Your father was very distraught, not quite himself, I’m sure.” She stopped abruptly, folding her hands in her lap, and then continued, “I made no connection when I saw you at the library until you got out the shell. I’d seen your grandmother hold and rub that shell hundreds of times. It was her touchstone to reality, a concrete link to love when Stormy was at sea. Holding it transported her to a place of safety, to a place where Claude and I could not travel with her.”

  “Did she seem happy? Was this household ever happy again?” Theresa asked.

  “Oh, yes. Theodosia Hampton was not one to be defeated by life. She fought the challenges that lined up at her door, knocking them down with her great energy until she could no longer defend herself. The crowd that gathered became too strong for her. Finally, your father couldn’t continue to do battle for himself and her, too. He needed help to be able to move on for your sake, and I was hired as companion. There were many happy years and months at a time when your grandmother was as lucid as you are and sharp as a tack. But occasionally dark clouds crept in without warning.”

  Ana’s eyes wandered up to the ceiling. Beckoning angels with outstretched arms looked down, and Theresa felt an eerie acknowledgement, an unspoken communion. Her breath quickened, and she blurted out, “What happened to her? How did Grandmother die?”

  Stormy pulled his feet off the ottoman and sat upright in his chair. He leaned forward on his elbows, cradling his head in his hands. Ana looked toward him, startled, waiting.

  “I guess we thought you knew,” he said slowly, lifting his face to deliver words that broke his heart. “She gave herself to the sea, Theresa. It was Poseidon’s call on a cold night.”

  Theresa covered her face and burst into tears, heavy sobbing tears of frustration and grief. She felt overwhelmed by events that kept killing her family. Life was no more certain than the turn of a card, she thought—a game of chance decided by the heartless whim of nature’s fury.

  Stormy continued in a soft voice. “We never dreamed she’d go out in a storm. It was a dark night, angry, loud with lightning and cracking trees. She was often anxious during bad weather, sometimes callin’ out for Emily, but she never went outside in it.

  “We sat together until she went to bed in her room as usual. In the morning there was no sign of her. We searched the house and then ran desperately to the boathouse. Lying on the dock was one of the life preserver rings from my boat, its faded words ‘Too Late’ a haunting farewell. Her body was discovered a few days later. Dressed in her nightclothes, she was still clutching your small silver cup in her frozen hand.”

  Stormy struggled to go on. “We figured she was tryin’ to empty the whole ocean to find Em, to keep her safe from the storm. Her little cup was not up to the task demanded by her heart.” He tried to smile. “Theodosia never accepted bad odds.”

  “And my father didn’t come back?” Theresa asked, knowing the answer.

  “No, we called him, of course, but he said they had already parted. He was a good man, Theresa. He did the best he could, the best he knew how.”

  “He was full of love,” Ana added, thoughtfully. “Gentle and tender. He cared deeply for you and your grandmother but kept a protective wall around himself, like a barrier against hopelessness. He felt so alone without your mother.”

  Theresa was surprised by such intimacy but got up without comment and hurried over to the oven at the sound of a timer. Dinner was ready, and the strong aroma of spicy lasagna filled the room. She had found fresh oregano and marjoram growing in wild clumps in the garden and made her specialty. She knew the recipe by heart. It was Kevin’s favorite dish, and she wished he were there with her.

  The four sat at the long, marble-top table, two across from two. Claude rubbed his hand over the carved letters, “TABLE OF THE MUSES,” and whispered in a mischievous voice, “My muse says ‘apples.’”

  “Okay, go on,” responded Stormy with a tender smile, and Claude sat up very straight in his chair, not yet taking a bite of his food.

  Theresa sat speechless, watching. The young man began, “Cloud boy picks round gifts of sweetness, rosy red the kiss of sun. Fall to ground or climb to pick me, each one special when I come.”

  Stormy and Ana began to clap and call “Bravo!” Theresa couldn’t help but join in, marveling at this spontaneous and creative outburst.

  Stormy turned to her. “It’s a game your grandmother started at dinner parties. She believed everyone had a muse that provided music or poems or ideas. The table was the place to share them. An equal opportunity table.” He laughed. “When your muse spoke to you, you spoke aloud, and if you never offered, Miss Theodosia would call on you to conjure up your inner listening!

  “No shrinking violets came to dinner twice! You came, you ate, you opened up! It was always lots of fun, and some pretty good stuff came out. I often thought we should have written some down. We could’ve had a book, Madame Whimsy’s Round Table of Verse! Though the table’s not round, even those of us who can barely put three sensible words in a row got into the swing of it. And Claude was always included.”

  The lighted portrait of mother and child peered from the end of the dining room, and Theresa felt a closeness to them that made her feel they would always remain with the survivors of this place—not their spirits, but their spirit. The women in her family didn’t give up or give in. She felt she knew them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE PHONE WAS ringing as Theresa came up the porch steps carrying groceries. She cursed herself for accepting plastic bags at the store, as she felt the grapes and tomatoes squishing against the jug of milk. Everything collapsed into a jumble as she set the bags on the hanging swing and grabbed the outside phone.

  Theresa paused and could not speak. Pushed up close to the kitchen door she saw a large vase of white roses decorated with pink ribbon. The mystery of carrots and notes had finally been settled, but she knew instantly who would send her white roses.

  “Hello,” she said breathlessly, almost saying Kevin’s name.

  “Hi, there. I was going to give it just one more ring.” It was Rick. “Feel like going out for an intimate, five-course dinner with candlelight and violin players?”

  Theresa laughed—still staring at the flowers. “Just one more ring, huh? That’s why I don’t have an answering machine. I don’t want all my gentleman callers thinking it’s too easy to
find me!” She loved the sound of his voice, relaxed and willing to wander to meet her moods. “And what secret restaurant do you have up your sleeve? Violin players?”

  “Well, I was thinking of having the jet brought up and taking you to New York, or we could just settle for chowder and a burger at the Squire.”

  Theresa was enjoying his little game. She had no awkward or lonely times with him. She didn’t need to rewind conversation and edit out the hurt or the misunderstanding. “Since my sequined dress is at the cleaners, I think it will have to be something local, not too formal.”

  “Squire’s it is. Pick you up at eight?”

  “I guess I can slip into a pair of jeans by then!” They both laughed.

  A relationship starved for fun will choke and die.

  As she hung up the phone, Theresa had to admit she felt stirrings of excitement. Rick made her feel at ease, as if he knew what she was thinking almost before she did. He dared her to be herself and didn’t argue with the result. She craved his touch. But for the first time, Theresa felt embarrassed being a married woman rehearsing the desirable qualities of a man not her husband. Whimsy Towers had understanding walls that absorbed indiscretion, but she could not expect Kevin to be so resilient. She knew the clock was ticking.

  Gathering up the grocery bags by their stretched-out plastic grips, Theresa headed for the refrigerator, carefully putting the bags on the counter and hoping ice cream wasn’t oozing out over the lettuce. As she lifted the cold carton, the sides caved in slightly, and she automatically reached into the drawer for a teaspoon. The spoon ran easily along the soft edges of the melting ice cream, curling like rolling Hawaiian surf. It was cool and pleasing on her tongue—an innocent sensation.

  After several bites, she quickly put the groceries away, making a mental note of what was left in the pantry. She imagined her grandmother taking stock of the tall shelves, sealing the tins, and putting colorful labels on the squatty glass jars: tea bags, cocoa mix, dried milk, cinnamon. Many items were left from previous years’ use, and Theresa had decided not to throw them out. She pictured Ana closing up the house after Grandmother’s death, leaving everything in readiness for the baby who’d grown up far from her inheritance.