Alison Preston - Norwood Flats 02 - The Geranium Girls

by Alison Preston

  Rachel laughed again, this time heartily and she spilled a little of her own drink.

  “No, Beryl. No, I didn’t, but I did notice the collar. Are you all right, dear? I’m sorry for laughing. It just seems like such an odd question.”

  “Yeah, I know it is.”

  Beryl didn’t know whether to confide in her or not. Maybe there was a screw loose under those snow white curls and it was Mrs. Frobisher herself wreaking havoc in Beryl’s yard.

  “Have you seen anyone, Rachel?” she asked. “Anyone around my house besides me? Besides me and Jude?”

  “I don’t think so, dear.” Rachel pondered the question. “Let me just think a minute.” Her forehead wrinkled as she looked backward in time, searching for something that would be of help.

  “Just the old woman, I guess, and that would have been last week sometime, maybe even the week before, the last time I saw her. Since I stopped working, the days aren’t as structured as they were and one week pretty much runs into another. Yes, just Clive’s mother. At least I assume that’s who she is. She’s the only one I’ve seen, dear.”

  A silence surrounded Rachel Frobisher’s words, like a picture frame. The words hung between the two women in the clear air.

  “Clive’s mother?” A coolness flowed down over Beryl’s face. She pictured Gatorade running over the coach’s head when the Blue Bombers won an important game. It was like that. Only this was in slow motion and it turned warm very quickly.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “Does she do some gardening for you?”

  “Clive doesn’t have a mother,” Beryl said.

  “Oh?” Rachel looked shaken. “I see her there in his yard. Who is she? An aunt? I…I just assumed…”

  “I don’t know who she is, Rachel. I’ve never even seen her. But I have a feeling that she isn’t anyone, I mean, anyone that’s supposed to be there. Anyone Clive knows.”

  “What do you mean, Beryl?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  This bright new knowledge spun around inside Beryl’s head till she felt dizzy and very tired. She didn’t want it, any of it. She wanted to go home and lie under a blanket on the couch.

  “What did this person look like?” she asked in a flat voice, placing her drink on the ground beside her chair. She didn’t want it, either. It was too sweet, sickly sweet. It reminded her of the wine she and her friends used to get their hands on when they were teenagers. Wine with names like Prince of Denmark. They’d drink and then sometimes they’d barf.

  “Let me see,” Rachel said now. “The woman was tall and slim, I know that much.”

  “Who isn’t?” Beryl muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing, Rachel. Go on. Please.”

  “I didn’t see her up close.”

  Rachel looked as if she was struggling with a picture inside her head. “I’m sure I’ll see her again soon, so I’ll pay better attention and give you a full report. Maybe I’ll introduce myself.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A dress. She always wears a dress. An old-fashioned flowered one, now that I think of it. And her hair is grey and pulled back in a bun at the base of her neck. Very old-fashioned, as I say.” Rachel looked down at her own overalls and fluffed out the cloud of white hair around her face.

  Beryl smiled at her. “Not like you.”

  Rachel smiled back. “She has big feet,” she said. “Too big for the rest of her. Or maybe it was just the shoes she was wearing. Clumpy big things. Usually if you see someone of that age in a dress their footwear goes along with it. You know, ladylike. Not great thunderous shoes.”

  “Thunderous?” Beryl hoped that Rachel wasn’t creating someone just to please her. She didn’t doubt that there had been an old woman. But she didn’t know Rachel well enough to know if she was remembering a picture of her or creating one.

  Chapter 21

  He likes packing the eye holes with dirt, but not as much as doing the mouth. He doesn’t like the part where he has to cut the eyes out, but they seem to be the logical next hole. He’s glad he brought the Ziploc bags; they’re good for eyes, as well as for his gloves and miniature cultivator. That’s what his Aunt Hortense used to call it. He calls it his gouger. His cargo pants have lots of pockets, the kind with flaps and fasteners, so he puts one item in each of his pockets.

  The trouble is, one of the eyes collapses when his leg presses against a hefty woman on the bus on his way home. It’s rush hour and they’re packed together like sardines. She smells like a sardine too; she grosses him out. Luckily it’s a short ride to his home stop. He worries on the bus with the eyes in his pockets; he feels conspicuous, hopes nothing leaks or shows in other ways.

  He can’t save the wrecked one. It’s a slippery mess, as though he’s been carrying a raw egg around all day. Well, not that bad, but not good enough to keep. He flushes it down the toilet. The good one, the firm one, he places in a jar and sets on the mantel.

  Another day he catches a different bus. This one takes him to Brookside Cemetery, where he places the jar on the grave of his Auntie Cunt who’s been dead for sixteen years. He places her miniature cultivator there too, to let her know she had a part in it.

  On a bench in the graveyard he sits and smokes cigarettes as night falls. Even when he’s inhaling the smoke, it’s not enough. He wants another one, at the same time.

  It reminds him of how he used to feel when he tried to be with girls. Even when they cooperated with his tying-up games, it wasn’t enough. And he didn’t like the look in their eyes when he told them what he wanted them to do, what he needed them for. Too often he saw pity there, sometimes fear. He preferred the fear.

  A picture of the tall woman with no eyes rests inside his head. No one saw him in the park. No one has found her yet. She is still alone.

  He wonders if anyone saw him in the back yards. Maybe the white-haired bitch. He loved doing Mail Girl’s flowers. Beryl Kyte’s flowers. It was the most fun he could remember having in a long time. The cat collar wasn’t that great. The animal didn’t like him at all. Boyo still has a scratch on his hand from the cat. That makes him angry.

  Chapter 22

  A week and two days had gone by since Beryl found the pink collar around Jude’s neck.

  She stared at the front page of the Saturday Free Press. Another dead woman had been found, this time in Whittier Park. According to the paper, there were “similarities between this case and the one involving the woman found in St. Vital Park.” One of the similarities was that both victims were very tall, approaching six feet. They published this as a warning to tall women, just in case it was a pattern.

  Beryl wondered what the other similarities were and knew that one of them would be connected to the dirt — the dirt that had been packed into Beatrice Fontaine’s mouth — that had welcomed the mushroom spores and encouraged their growth.

  As she sat on her deck drinking coffee, pondering all this, she realized she was shaking. It was true. When she was too dopey to realize that something was upsetting her, her body let her know about it in one way or another. Someone had told her once that we can’t have a single solitary thought in our heads without our bodies reacting in some way. It was comforting in a way, kind of like having a really helpful and clever friend. Beryl remembered shaking when her dad died, shaking when her mum died, but crying on neither occasion.

  A tall, slouching figure shuffled slowly down the sidewalk towards her. It was Wally. It was the first time she had seen him since the folk festival.

  “Hi, Wally,” she said, as he cut across her bumpy lawn. “This is a surprise. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  Beryl was uncomfortable that he had shown up uninvited. He must have put some effort into finding out where she lived and she didn’t like that either.

  “Hi, Beryl. Nice deck,” he said. “I’ve come to see you, actually. To see what the climate is surrounding my actions.”

  “What actions? What are you talking about?�
��

  “My behaviour at the folk festival.”

  He dragged a green plastic chair over to where Beryl sat on her recliner.

  “Oh.”

  Beryl remembered Wally disappearing that night, but she hadn’t really thought about it since. Could that be what he meant?

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “Thanks, Beryl. Black is good.”

  When they were settled in the shade of the Russian willow sipping their coffee, Wally said, “Have Stan and Raylene spoken about it?”

  “About what, Wally? You leaving early, you mean, or what exactly?”

  “Yeah. Taking off the way I did, without saying goodbye.”

  Beryl wanted to shout, “No one cares!” But instead, she said, “Stan certainly hasn’t mentioned it and I haven’t seen Raylene. I think people probably just figured you caught a bus home or met a friend or something.”

  “I don’t have much in the way of friends,” Wally said.

  “Oh. Well…” Beryl sighed.

  “Sorry. I don’t want to burden you.”

  “No. Don’t worry. You’re not burdening me.” Beryl smiled at him. “I don’t think this is worth worrying about, Wally.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I worry about stupid things.”

  “So you haven’t spoken to Stan or Raylene, then, since the folk festival.”

  “No.”

  “If it would make you feel better you could always apologize to them.”

  “Maybe I could do that — an apology.”

  “Of course you could, Wally. But be sure to tell them what you’re apologizing for because they might not get it if you don’t.”

  Beryl was getting impatient. She wanted Wally gone so she could think about the new dead person, maybe phone the police to see if they would tell her anything, although she was pretty sure they wouldn’t.

  Wally sipped his coffee, missed his mouth, and spilled two dark brown splotches on his white golf shirt.

  Just like me, Beryl thought.

  “Shit!” he said.

  She hoped he wouldn’t want to try to get the coffee stain out. Wally was too strange for her to want him inside her house. She looked at him and she supposed he was looking back, but his eyes didn’t really seem to connect. They darted about. Shifty. The opposite of Sergeant Christie, who could kill you with his eyes.

  A squirrel picked up the last of the peanuts Beryl had put out and perched on the edge of a big pot of begonias. It scrounged around in the dirt.

  “Should that squirrel be doing that?” Wally asked.

  Beryl laughed.

  The squirrel ran off with the nut.

  “I guess he knew we were on to his hiding place,” Beryl said. “He wasn’t going to risk having you steal his peanut.”

  Wally missed his mouth again and coffee dribbled down his chin. “Fuck!”

  The squirrel returned and crouched beside Beryl, staring up at her.

  “That squirrel is freaky,” Wally said. “I don’t like him.”

  Beryl laughed again. She noticed her next-door neighbour, Clive, sitting on his crumbling front steps.

  “Hey, Clive,” she called.

  “Hi, Beryl.” He waved.

  “I’m going to introduce you to my famous next-door neighbour,” she said to Wally and stood up. “And then I have to go in, Wally. I have things to do.”

  She dragged him over to where Clive sat smoking and sniffing on the step.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” she said. “Have you been playing out of town?”

  “Yeah.” Clive grinned and his long face creased like old leather. “We’re doin’ fairs down south all summer. I just came home for a couple of days between gigs.”

  “Wally Goately,” Beryl said, “meet Clive Boucher, drummer for Crimson Soul. Remember them?”

  “Hi, Clive. Yeah, I do, actually. I’m not much into music of any kind, but I remember you all right. I think I even saw you play once back in high school. Would that have been possible?”

  Clive laughed, a whiskey laugh that turned into a cough. “Anything’s possible, Wally. Goately, is it? I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. What kind of name is that?”

  “A jackass name,” Wally said.

  Beryl wondered if he ever really smiled. He always wore a horrible grimace on his face, as though life was unbearably painful. For Wally, it probably was.

  Clive laughed and coughed some more. “Well, it’s good to meet you, man.”

  “So how long are you home for, Clive?” Beryl asked.

  “Just till tonight. I’m not sure why I came home at all. My house is such a mess. It just depresses the shit out of me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s not so bad,” Beryl said.

  They all three looked up at the house, which looked a little crooked, or maybe it was just the steps that made it look that way. They were definitely crooked and crumbling terribly.

  “Those steps are downright dangerous,” Wally said.

  “So did you bring Wally over here just to cheer me up, Beryl, or what?”

  She laughed. She wanted to ask Clive about the old lady that Mrs. Frobisher saw in their yards but she didn’t want to ask him with Wally there.

  A horn blasted from the back lane and Clive stood up.

  “There’s my ride. Gotta go.”

  “Oh. You’re going out,” Beryl said.

  “I’ve got some business to clear up before heading out tonight. See ya later. Nice meeting you, Wally.” And Clive was gone.

  “Maybe I’ll see you later, before you go,” Beryl shouted after him. “We can talk,” she added to herself.

  She was feeling very resentful of Wally’s presence. He was in the way. If she didn’t get to talk to Clive today, who knew when he’d be back again?

  “I have to go in now,” Beryl said. “I have to watch The Rockford Files.” She didn’t care about hurting Wally’s feelings.

  He took the hint and cut across her lawn to the sidewalk, leaving the way he had come.

  “Your grass is bumpy,” he called over his shoulder. “That means you’ve got lots of worms.”

  Beryl wondered for the first time how he had gotten here: car, bus, on foot?

  “Odd duck,” she said to herself and climbed the two wide steps back up to her deck.

  Chapter 23

  “I must be a really boring person, even deep down,” Beryl said. She lay fully clothed on her own bed with her head on Dhani’s chest.

  He stroked the smooth skin of her upper arm where it poked out from her summer shirt. “Why would you say that, Beryl? I don’t think you’re boring at all.”

  “Thanks. I believe that you don’t think I’m boring.”

  One thing Beryl knew by now about Dhani was that he told the truth as he saw it. Lies didn’t sit well with him. Not even the kind that were told to make life easier or to keep from hurting someone’s feelings. If Dhani thought Beryl was boring he would say so, if asked. He’d hate saying it, but he wouldn’t lie. Dhani held back sometimes, he didn’t set out to cause pain, but he wouldn’t lie.

  “It’s not just that I don’t think so,” Dhani said. “It’s an actual fact. You’re not a boring person.”

  “I’m not sure that qualifies as a fact, Dhani. It’s more of an opinion — one guy’s opinion.” She buried her face in the soft hair on his chest and inhaled his scent. “Mmmm,” she said. “You smell wonderful.”

  Dhani had taken his shirt off, but he had checked with her first, to make sure it was okay.

  “Why do you think you’re boring even deep inside?” Dhani asked. “What made you say that?”

  Beryl sat up and leaned against the wooden headboard. “I dreamed I moved my bedside table a little to the left.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s it. That’s my dream in its entirety. I moved my bedside table a little to the left.”

  “Your left or its?”

  “What?”

  “Your left or the bedside table’s
left?”

  “Dhani, that’s crazy.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “How isn’t it, then?”

  When Dhani got through with her, Beryl realized that she had moved the bedside table a little to its left in her dream, a little to her right. And he convinced her that since she was seeing something from the table’s point of view it made her an interesting person as opposed to a boring one. It was good enough for Beryl.

  She knew by now that Dhani had had a wife who died. Her name was Maggie and she died eight years ago from pancreatic cancer. Beryl asked him now if he had a picture of Maggie in his wallet. He did.

  “May I see it?” Beryl asked.

  “Yes, you may,” Dhani said. He reached in his pocket for his wallet and spread an assortment of cards around them on the bed. Library card, credit cards, debit card, driver’s license, coffee cards, even a St. Leon Gardens’ card. Ten dollars worth of produce gets you one tractor mile and a little stamp of cherries in a square. Fifteen tractor miles gets you ten dollars off your next purchase. Beryl had one of those cards herself.

  Maggie was lovely, as Beryl knew she would be. Not super model beautiful, but kind, gentle beautiful, with eyes full of fun. She was looking at the photographer as though she had a bone to pick with him, as though he had been teasing her, or maybe taking the picture against her will.

  “Did you take the picture?” Beryl asked.

  “Yes,” Dhani said. “It’s not perfect, I guess, but I caught her by surprise, and that’s what I wanted to do.”

  “She’s lovely,” Beryl said.

  “Yes.” Dhani began filing his cards away in his wallet.

  “She died before the trouble with your toes,” Beryl said.

  “Yes. They had started bothering me before she got sick, but not to the point where there had been much serious discussion about them.”

  So far Dhani hadn’t removed his liner slippers with their false toes when he took his shoes off at Beryl’s door. She hadn’t seen his feet yet.