by Jules Hedger
The townsfolk of Lucky Creek seemed almost as worn through as the farmers I spotted from the train, but while the farmers could have worn their clothes all their lives through many patches and tears, these people seemed to have taken their fine clothes from an attic trunk. The women's linen dresses were gray with dirt and worn at the edges. The children's boots were torn at the toes and their smocks hung off their shoulders, stretched and unraveling. One woman held a sky-blue umbrella high against the glare while patches of sunlight filtered in between the ragged metal spikes jutting out of the torn cloth. The children grasped at their mothers' hands as tightly as ticks and the men's eyes kept to the ground from beneath the brim of their straw hats. Everyone going about their business had about as much personality as plastic figurines displayed on lawns as decorations at garden parties. Or dolls sat forgotten on the top shelf of some teenager's bookcase.
I don't like dolls. My mother had bought me one when I was little and it frightened me so much that it had ended up under my bed with its white, smooth face cracked into five, chalky pieces. Mom had scolded me for days after and forever blamed the traumatizing incident as the excuse for my demeanor.
"She never played with dolls as a child," Mom would say to her Canasta friends. "Yes, I know, how strange. Of course, we tried to make her normal, but she would always break them or – and this is the strangest thing – she'd put them in pillow cases and hide them in the most random places, like at the back of the spice cabinet or under a car seat."
I have never owned a doll since. They're just . . . creepy.
Tyler and I reached the end of the path and looked up a small, inclining slope. Perched on the very top of the small hill was a structure that overlooked the town. I heard Tyler release a small, pleased sigh as we surveyed what I assumed what his house; his big, gothic, slightly terrifying hulk of a home.
Twin spires rose up from the structure into the blue sky. Vines crept up the sides of the house and covered nearly half of the windows in the front, giving the impression of the house being slowly suffocated.
But climbing the hill and walking through a pair of pretty wrought iron gates, the shadow that hung over it seemed to lift. Despite the house's somber appearance, the outside gardens flourished in the sun. There was even a fountain on the side of the lawn with a cherub pouring water from a vase. The water had worn the rim of the vase smooth and a piece of the cherub's lip had broken off, making its smile a bit lopsided. But the water made music and there were birds and tended flowerbeds.
"You look utterly exhausted," he said again, leading me up the steps to the mesh-covered enclosed porch. Following at a distance, I watched his jaunty walk. He was everyone's embarrassing father all rolled into one. It was kind of comforting. "Let's have a talk and perhaps you could take a little nap." He pushed open the first door and held it open. "Can you . . . sorry, would you mind taking off your shoes?"
Tyler watched me awkwardly as I unlaced my sneakers and set them side-by-side outside of the front door. As I straightened back up, he suddenly smiled and fumbled to unlock the main door.
The front hallway was long and dark and lit faintly by tasteful wall sconces. But the sun I had so loved from the front garden stopped at the door. The air smelled of mold and was tinged with a chill that came from having the windows closed most of the day. Near the end of the hall a short flight of stairs snaked up to an equally dark second floor.
I let myself be led into a room with a large empty fireplace and was sat down in an overstuffed chair with wing-backs that reminded me of a giant bat.
Tick tock, tick tock . . .
"I'll be right back. I'll just go get you something to put on your feet. Please, make yourself at home for a few moments," Tyler said, glancing about the room to make sure it was alright before retreating back into the front hall.
Left alone in a chair deep enough to tunnel to Narnia, I contemplated my surroundings. A chandelier with light cobwebs hung above me on the high ceiling. Near the door a pianoforte stood against the wall. Dust covered almost every surface.
I felt very small.
Tick tock, tick tock . . .
Everything around seemed fragile. Thin paintings of fishing children and blue rivers hung from the walls and vases sat precariously on all sorts of end tables. Next to my chair sat a particularly fragile looking glass figurine of a long-necked swan. I picked it up and warmed the cold glass with my palms before placing it carefully back on the table.
Tyler walked back in and handed me a pair of slippers.
"I'm afraid I don't have anything that would fit you except for these, but I expect you'll appreciate some covering for your feet. I haven't had the time to carpet most of the floors." Tyler glanced around the room and rubbed his hands on his pants. "You'll see that much of the house is unfurnished, in fact. There are so many rooms and I only use a few. I just don't see the point of it, really." He shrugged and playfully hit a note on the piano.
"Thank you," I replied. I gratefully slipped my feet into the soft slippers. In the chilly house I opted to keep my jacket on, so I must have looked pretty crazy with dark denim, leather and pink fluffy slippers. "I don't mean to be rude –" I paused. Tyler tucked his hands back into his pockets and rocked towards me expectantly. "But why are you helping me?"
Tyler cocked his eyebrow and walked across the room to a writing desk. "Fair question, Maggie."
He freed his hands to reach into a cubby hole and pulled out a photograph. The fondness with which he stroked the sides was slightly off-putting, like a magpie hoarding something shiny. But when he passed it over to me, I felt slightly guilty.
The black and white photo showed a small girl, hair done up in curls, sitting patiently on a chair by an ornamental fern. Her socks were white and ended at the ankle, perching prettily on top of shiny kid shoes dangling a few inches of the floor. I bet she was dying to swing those feet.
"She was so still for so long," Tyler said, interrupting my thoughts. "The photographer said he had never seen a child so willing to pose. No smiles." He grinned again and sniffed. "But she always did smile."
"I'm so sorry," I murmured. Tyler shrugged and took back the photo. "Was it recent?"
"No, but thank you. Clara died a little over three years ago." Swiftly walking back to the desk, he returned the photo to its treasured cubby. He momentarily braced himself on the desk top. "She drank bleach."
The gasp that forced its way out of my throat was harsh and Tyler waved it away as soon as he heard.
"She was the light of my life. And you know what? The Painter sent flowers." Tyler walked back over to my chair and sat down on the chaise lounge across from me. It emitted a small puff cloud of dust into the air. "Cirrus is a cold, thoughtless man who is only interested in power. He has no regard for the people."
"Does everyone think like this?"
"Not everyone, but the people who do loathe the idea of him taking over. There are enough of us to make a difference, I like to think." His eyes softened as he leaned over to take my hand. "And you. You are someone's daughter. My little Clara would have followed you in this Walk." His eyes flickered again to my necklace, and this time they were unafraid.
"So you can help?" I asked. "I need to steal his pocket watch. And I need to do it without him taking this necklace."
"I can set you up with supplies. I have maps and food and weapons. You don't have any of that, do you?"
At this point, there was nothing for me not to trust. No reason why I shouldn't tell Tyler about the coal man and the knife. But the weight of it dug into my side and for some reason, I lied.
"No, nothing."
Tyler's hair flopped in front of his eyes in a very charming way and I decided I liked him very much. This vision I was building of him, as a protector, made me really pleased I had him on my side.
"But you might consider staying an extra day, perhaps," Tyler was saying. "You've arrived just in time for the town's annual Festival of Rags tomorrow night. It has been so long since we've
had someone to really celebrate it for." Giving my hand a little squeeze, he stood up and brushed a stray cobweb off his shoulder. "Would you care for something to eat?"
He started out of the room and into the hallway. I pulled myself up from the chair and followed him down through the house's chill into a small kitchen. Behind my back I could almost sense the photograph, still tucked into the desk, of a little girl who had died a slow and painful death.
"What is the Festival of Rags?" I asked him, taking the chance to shift the knife to a more comfortable position in my pocket.
"It's the commemoration of the founding of the town. We call it the Festival of Rags because this whole town was pretty much a dump when we found it," Tyler said with a laugh. He was opening the cupboards and ice box and pulled out plates, knives, and a basket of eggs. "But we stitched it up and patched up the holes and it's turned out pretty well, hasn't it?" He struck a match and turned on the gas fire stove. "We put a lot of time into it. As Mayor I try to find other things for them to do throughout the year, but the town is pretty much stuck on this celebration."
"How old is this town?" I sat myself down on a stool perched by the kitchen table and watched a large knob of butter melt luxuriously in the bottom of Tyler's pan. "Everything feels new, but old-fashioned. It's like I've traveled back in time."
Tyler gave me a funny look and I blushed. He cracked two eggs into the pan, breaking the awkward tension in the room with the sizzle of hot grease.
"I don't know quite what to say to that but . . . it's impossible to say how long the town itself was around before we found it. But we've been in Lucky Creek for almost a decade. The train station you came into wasn't there when we got here." He flipped over the eggs and smiled apologetically as the yolks cracked across the bottom. "We added it in a few years ago."
"It's nice," I clarified and he smiled, motioning for me to hold out my plate.
"Quiet too, I know. Not many people come in or move out. But it's nice to have something so big and majestic, isn't it?" he asked.
I nodded and ate my eggs. We sat in companionable silence for a few moments. "Where's the creek?" I asked suddenly.
Tyler frowned. "What creek?"
"Lucky Creek," I said, after a few confusing moments.
Tyler cocked his head and started to chuckle. "Lucky Creek came at a whim. It's not real. The only creek in this town runs behind my house and is presently unnamed." He paused again and added thoughtfully, "Perhaps I should name my creek Lucky, just to be consistent. It might give me a bit of good fortune." He turned off the stove and gave a sigh. "Well, I need to go out for a couple of hours. There's a town meeting to solidify the finishing touches for tomorrow night. I'll be back for dinner."
"Do you mind if I have a lie down?" I asked. "I'm feeling a bit groggy."
Tyler slapped his forehead and groaned.
"I didn't have time to set you up a room." He shook his head. "We had so much on our plate in dealing with the conductor, I plum forgot. I'll just go air out one of the guest rooms and give you some new sheets." He turned on the faucet in the sink and looked around the room as if checking to see if he had anything else to do or fix. "I'll go set those on the bed right now." He dashed out of the room, leaving the warm water to fill up the sink.
I walked over to the cracked sink and turned off the faucet. I put my plate in the water and wondered if I should clean up the pan, as well. The grease was beginning to form a layer of skin on the pan. It was all very quiet.
Tick tock, tick tock . . .
I could have been anywhere besides the heroin soaked mind of my uncle.
And then I thought, How did they deal with the conductor?
Tick tock, tick tock . . .
Suddenly, the silence was broken by Tyler thumping down the stairs.
"I'll only be a couple of hours. Help yourself to anything in the ice box. I'll try to stop in town to get some things for dinner if you're still up." He poked his head into the kitchen as he pulled on a long overcoat. "Don't wash those dishes. I'll do that when I get back. Your room is the last on the left once you get up the stairs. I've set the sheets on the bed."
He began to leave, but suddenly stopped. He took a few seconds standing in the kitchen, looking at my face and smiling contentedly. Hands moved slowly to his wrists, rubbing slowly like a habit. "I really can't tell you how pleasing it is to have you here, Maggie. I'll be able to tell my grandchildren that I met the Daughter of Palet. And that she was so beautiful." He disappeared again into the hall and I heard the outside porch door close and lock.
Daughter of Palet? That was a new one.
I walked to the kitchen window and watched Tyler walking determinedly down the gravel pathway through the front yard and out of the iron gates. He stopped to check a pocket watch attached to his coat and before he disappeared at the bottom of the hill, I saw him look back up at the house and smile faintly.
Chapter 9
The clock ticked loudly in the otherwise silent house. I was sat in the swing-bench on the porch watching the sun set over the hills and patchwork fields. Tyler hadn't come back from the town meeting yet but I didn't expect him back for a while. In all honesty, I was practically sitting on my hands in a childish attempt not to sneak around his house and look into drawers.
I stood up from the bench and gave it a friendly push before walking back inside into the dark hall. I could still hear the gentle swing and squeaks of the chains as I stood considering the short flight of stairs up to the second floor.
In the early evening half-light, the place felt heavier and bigger, along with emptier, darker and pretty close to creepy. A painting on the wall of a man and his dog seemed to watch me from the frame. It was then I decided that being a snoop was much more distracting than standing in the darkness.
The steps creaked faintly under my toes as I started my climb. The upper hallway was short and narrow, with a thin, green runner stretching from either end. There were three doors on my right side, all of them closed. I felt along the wall until my fingers touched a light switch and suddenly the hall was bathed in warm yellow from the sconces on the walls.
Which one, which one? I felt a guilty glee at wandering about on my own. I also pictured what I must look like: dirty girl, pink slippers, and did I just mention 'glee?' Yup, I have become that crazy lady who lives on her own. Practice for the empty years ahead, huh?
Standing in the hallway and listening to the clock tick, Cirrus entered my mind. I don't know if it was the thought of 'empty years' or what that made his face appear, but he was there. And the feeling I had forgotten, or put aside to forget, of what it felt to have his green eyes pinned to my face. What would those years be like sharing my mind with him? Would I wonder the hallways, speaking to him and to myself, dragging a dirty bathrobe behind? Is that what the ruler of Palet should look like? Or would it be companionship, a body to move against and someone to get dressed for in the morning? I shivered and was afraid to admit what it was for. I told myself that it was insidious to think about.
The first door that I opened led into an abandoned room filled with furniture covered in heavy, white dust cloths. The curtains were drawn but I felt how stale and ancient the air was. But the second one I tried opened onto a room that must have been Tyler's. The handle turned smoothly and the well-oiled door silently opened into an obviously lived-in bedroom.
The space was as dark as the hall, but at least the furniture was uncovered. There was no musty smell or feeling of dampness and when I drew back the curtains to bring in the last remaining light from outside I saw that unlike the rest of the house, someone had rid this room of the dust.
The large bed was unmade and clothes littered the floor around the chest of drawers: suspenders, briefs, wrinkled white dress shirts. Tyler had obviously gotten dressed in a hurry, but besides that the room was tidy, personal, and filled with small bits of a normal human being.
Periodically listening to make sure there were no sounds of my host coming back, I took m
y time wandering around the room. It wasn't all that interesting, but I didn't know what I was expecting. He had a box of buttons on his dresser and a bookcase filled with leather bound volumes on birds, foraging, and crafts. A well-thumbed paperback was perched by his side of the bed next to an identical photograph of Clara, still sat sombrely by the same fern.
His desk was placed by the window. It was an old wooden roll-top that slid up and over to reveal a writing surface. I saw a keyhole in the front but when I went to open the lid, it moved smoothly open without a key. I flicked aside a few pieces of papers and discarded pencils. I absentmindedly picked up one of his letters and read a few lines about fabric thickness and the difference between cotton and linen. My God, this man was so boring.
I think I felt I was owed something. If I was going to revert back to my adolescent days I was damn well going to find some secret. This man had to have some, even if it was as boring as soft porn or a pair of women's underwear. I opened a drawer and rifled to the back, where my hands touched upon a small box about the width of a postcard. I opened it up quickly and saw, amongst a stack of old photographs, a bag of tobacco and some rolling papers. Jackpot!
A whistle floated up from the front garden and looking quickly out of the window I saw Tyler hurrying back up towards the porch.
"Shit," I whispered with a little thrill. I slid the top back on the writing desk and tiptoed quickly back over the carpet to the hallway. Closing the door silently I tucked the box of tobacco under my jacket and quietly moved further down the hallway. I jumped towards the farthest door in the three and slid inside just as I heard Tyler's keys jingle in the lock.
Yes! Just made it. I leaned against the door, smiling to myself as Tyler moved into the front hallway. These small triumphs were the sweetest . . .
The bed was stripped and there were sheets and a blanket folded at the end of the mattress. I rushed over and stuffed the box under the bedframe. I heard his whistle drift softly up from the downstairs, but he didn't come to check on me. Part of me was relieved.
