Irena leaned on White Deer’s arm and we made our way over to my house. We gathered around the table, exhausted.
Joe peeked in. “I’m off to round up the kids and cats,” he said, then headed out.
I put the kettle on for a pot of peppermint tea. Our spirits needed warming as much as our bodies. White Deer struck up a fire in the fireplace. When the flames were good and crackling, we gathered around the hearth with our tea.
Irena settled into the recliner and stared at the flames. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying and I had the feeling the shock of the whole situation hadn’t hit home yet. I sat on the ottoman next to her.
“Irena, do you want to tell us about it now? There’s no use in keeping quiet anymore.”
Her gaze flickered over my face, then to Murray. “I suppose I should. You’ll need to know for your report and it will put things to rest. Once and for all.” She took a sip of tea while Mur pulled out her notebook and flipped it open.
“Brigit was your maid, correct?” Murray asked.
Irena nodded. “My mother hired her from an employment agency. Brigit was fresh off the boat and so full of hope. Her mother and father were dead, and her sister ran away a few years before that. So Brigit packed her suitcase and came to America, hoping for a new life. She wanted to go to school, to become a teacher. But she didn’t have enough money, so she went to work as a housekeeper instead.”
“Times were tough,” White Deer said.
“For some people,” Irena murmured. “Not for my family. I just wish she’d picked another house to work in. Maybe she would have actually been able to live her life all the way through, then.” She hung her head for a moment. We didn’t pressure her. She would talk when she felt like it.
After a pause, she tried again. “From the start, Brent fell in love with Brigit. They were two of a kind—dreamers, romantics. He’d just returned home from another failed attempt at college and was so emotionally vulnerable. Brent was a poet, an artist. Father wanted him to be a ‘real man’—you know, make good on the game, make good in a job. ‘Follow in my footsteps, son.’ That sort of thing. But Brent wasn’t cut out to be a carbon copy of Father.”
“Those were the days when men were expected to be strong,” Murray said and Irena nodded.
“Yes. When Brent couldn’t live up to Father’s expectations, it caused a rift in our family. Our mother always tried to stand up for him, but she was drunk a good share of the time. And Father . . . whew, when he got angry, the house shook. I have to admit, I sided with Father. I was such a little snob. All I could think about was how Brent’s behavior would reflect on me. And, when he told us that he’d fallen in love with Brigit, it destroyed the family.”
I poured more tea all around. It must be terribly difficult for her to dredge up the dirty laundry that had remained hidden for so many years. Secrets that had buried a death for so long. The fire popped and White Deer added another log. Grateful for the warmth, I soaked in the light.
“I had just become engaged to my husband—he was the son of William Finch, one of Chiqetaw’s finest lawyers,” Irena continued. “Thomas had his degree from Princeton. He was hired to a good job at the Rutherford Savings & Loan. You see, my husband always has had a wonderful nose for business, and it was clear from the start that he’d be heading right up the ranks. Father wanted the match to go through. With the Finch family at the top of the social register, anybody who married Thomas would be set for life, and it would reflect well on our own family.”
She blinked, looking lost for a moment. “The day that Brent told us Brigit was pregnant and that he wanted to marry her was horrible. I was there, and remember begging Father to put an end to it. If my brother married a servant, I knew Thomas would find some excuse to break off our engagement. His family wouldn’t stand for it. They considered the Irish poor white trash.”
I began to have an inkling of the household dynamics that must have raged through the family. Poor Brent. A father ashamed of his son’s sensitivities, a sister who put her own desire for prestige above the happiness of her brother.
“What happened?” I asked.
“All hell broke loose.”
White Deer broke in. “What did your mother think?”
Irena shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Nobody ever paid any attention to her. I think she might have taken Brigit under her wing and welcomed her into the family. She liked Brigit, even though she could be harsh on the girl at times. But it wasn’t to happen. That morning . . . that horrible morning . . .” She covered her face with her hands. “Do I have to say?”
Murray rested one hand on Irena’s arm. “Irena, you need to tell me everything. Please?”
Irena blew her nose and sighed. “Father blew up. So did I. We got into a huge argument with Brent. He insisted that he was going to marry her and legitimize their child. Father threatened to cut him out of the will, and Brent told him to go to hell. Mother was crying and I was screaming at Brent for being so stupid. About that time, Brigit appeared at the top of the stairs—her room was the one in the basement that you found.”
She flushed and stared hard at her cup. “I think I called Brigit a slut. Brent shoved me—not hard, but enough to make Father blow up at him. Brigit tried to defend him and Father pushed her away. Not enough to hurt her, but it caught her off guard.”
Murray was busy scribbling away, looking impassive as usual. White Deer’s eyes were pressed shut.
Irena took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Brigit stumbled and her shoe caught on a loose board next to the basement steps. I remember she teetered—like a leaf about to fall off a tree. Father tried to catch her but he was all over. She tumbled headfirst down the stairs. Brent was by her side in an instant, but it was too late. Brigit was dead, and her baby with her—she was only a few months along. Her cat padded up and curled on her chest as she lay there.”
I took her cup from her and set it on the end table. “Is that why Brent blamed your father for her death?” I asked.
Irena nodded. “Yes.”
I mulled over the story. Was anyone really to blame? Maybe, but only in so many indirect ways. Irena and her father had contributed to Brigit’s death, but it had clearly been an accident. Circumstance playing out in a tragedy that would come back to haunt those involved. Brigit had tripped on a loose board and died. Brent had tripped over a root and died in the same spot where she had fallen. The sheer sadness of it all was overwhelming.
Murray stopped writing. Her face grim, she asked, “What happened then? Why did you bury her in the tree?”
After a moment, Irena shrugged, looking forlorn and haggard, every year of her age weighing down on her shoulders. “What if the police found out? What would happen to our family name? Thomas would surely call off our engagement.” She pressed her lips together, and I had the feeling every image she recounted was as fresh today as it had been fifty years ago. “While Brent mourned over Brigit in the basement, my father told Mother and me that we couldn’t breathe a word of what happened to anybody. He might go to jail and then where would we be? Out on the streets. Oh, he probably exaggerated, but at the time we believed him. Brigit was an orphan, from Ireland. Nobody would miss her. He suggested we tell everybody that she ran off with the silverware. Nobody would question us. Servants weren’t really human, not in our social circle.”
On a roll, her voice grew louder, as if she was anxious to get everything out in the open. “Father gave Brent a couple tranquilizers and put him to bed. He carried Brigit into her room, then headed out back to find a place to bury her. There weren’t many homes around back then.
“He decided to bury her in the hole beneath the yew tree. So Mother and I followed him downstairs to get the body . . . Brigit. There, we found little Mab on her chest again, dead. Like she’d crawled up there and just . . . closed her eyes for one last time. We buried them together. Mother was crying and Father wouldn’t speak. I don’t even remember what I felt.
I guess at that point, I blamed Brent for causing all the trouble in the first place. I didn’t even think about Brigit, not really. Not for several weeks to come.”
I could picture Irena, young and frightened that all her dreams might shatter. A domineering father and complacent mother. Even though I couldn’t imagine myself ever making the same choices or acquiescing as she had, I understood what had enticed her to take part in the cover-up.
“We wrapped Brigit and Mab in a sheet, and buried them beneath the yew tree. The hole was large enough to contain the body, and the woods were thick. We never thought she’d be found. Father sealed off her bedroom and we told everybody she’d disappeared in the night.”
“What happened to Brent?” White Deer asked.
“He sank into a state of catatonia. We smuggled him off to the institution and told them he was having delusions. For all intents and purposes, he was nonfunctional for a number of years. Father paid the hospital a pretty penny to keep Brent’s presence a secret . . . a couple of months later, we let it be known that he’d run away to Europe. I got married, and everything was fine; then on Halloween night lightning struck the house and burned it to the ground. The timbers fell in on the basement. Everything was destroyed.”
“And that’s what happened to Brigit O’Reilly.” I finished off my tea.
She nodded. “Yes. My parents moved away soon after the house burned. They left Brent in my care, promising me most of the estate if I’d keep tabs on him. I paid for his care out of a trust fund they set up. I didn’t go to visit him for a couple of years, then I went every month when I began to realize just what we’d done. I don’t think our parents ever saw him again.”
She leaned back and stared at Murray. “So that’s it. Am I going to jail?”
Murray looked at her and I could read the frustration in her eyes. Sometimes life left everything in a tangled mess. The case was solved, but there was no real happy ending. Except perhaps there was, for Brent and Brigit.
“I can’t tell you for sure. I have to file a report. I have no doubt the press will snap it up, so I recommend you tell your husband everything before tomorrow morning. If you’re asking for my professional opinion, to me it sounds like an accident. You helped cover up her death, but whatever the judge decides, I doubt if the punishment will be harsh.”
Irena nodded. She wiped her nose with her hand. “I can’t tell you how good—and how shameful—it feels to get this off my chest after all these years. I don’t think a day’s gone by when I haven’t regretted everything I said or did to the both of them.”
She turned to me. “When I found out that your young man meant to buy this lot, I panicked and tried to stop the sale. But I suppose the dead will tell their tales, no matter how much the living try to stop them.”
She took my hand. “Emerald, I don’t pretend to understand everything that went on out there, and I’m not even going to ask, but I can’t help but feel that Brent is easier now. He really did die when Brigit died. Maybe they’re together. I’d like to think so.”
“One last question,” I said. “Who painted the murals? In her bedroom? Was it Brent?”
Irena let out a soft laugh. “I guess the tranquilizers didn’t take and he went downstairs while we were outside. He painted all night. The next day when Mother went to take him some breakfast she couldn’t find him and we searched the house. He was lying on Brigit’s bed and didn’t speak again for years. The murals were there, fresh and beautiful. Father said to leave them—even he couldn’t bear to paint over them.”
Murray asked a few more questions, but I could tell she was tired of the whole mess and just wanted to stamp “closed” on the file. I motioned her into the kitchen while White Deer talked to Irena.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “This one pushes some buttons, Em. Jimmy and I have the same problem, in a different way. And I realized tonight just how much he means to me, and how willing I am to fight for him. If I end up losing my job because of this, so be it. I refuse to sweep my relationship under the rug and I won’t let anybody give me—or Jimmy—crap about it.”
I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a long hug. “Don’t ever worry you’ll be alone, Mur,” I whispered to her. “I’ve got your back on this one, and so does Joe.”
IRENA LEFT A few minutes later. She said she was going home to have a long talk with her husband.
Murray, White Deer, and I stretched out in front of the fire and I broke out the Oreos and juice. “Well, happy birthday to me,” I said, biting into a cookie. “I have to say, this was not my choice of party plans.”
“Eh, at least you’re among friends,” Mur said, laughing. I tossed a pillow at her and she threw it right back, knocking over my juice and spilling it all over the floor. As I scrambled for a towel, the front door opened and Joe, Jimbo, Maeve, the kids, and the three kittens spilled through. Behind them came Horvald, Ida, Harl, and Harlow’s husband James.
“We’re still celebrating your birthday, whether or not you feel like it,” Joe said, sweeping me up in his arms as the kids joined in for a group hug. He leaned close and whispered, “I had the feeling you needed a pick-me-up. This will have to do for now until I can give you a different kind later, in private.”
I snickered and pecked his cheek, then knelt by Kip. “Honey, how’s your arm?”
He held up his sling and gave me a broad grin. “Cool. A lot of the kids thought it was really neat and Mrs. Campbell said that we could study broken bones in class next week. Can I get a copy of my x-ray to take to class?” He looked so excited that I didn’t have the heart to say no, although I’d had my share of bones for awhile—broken or not.
“We’ll call the doctor tomorrow, sweetie,” I said.
Randa laughed. “I got an A on my test in Science today.”
“Very good, as always. I’m proud of you, honey. How’s Gunner doing? Is he back in school yet?” Even though we had spent every day of the past week in the same house, it still felt like a vast gulf separated me from my loved ones. By now, I knew that only time and a little peace and quiet would mend the rift. Working on the astral was lonely business.
“No, but I stopped by his aunt’s house and he told me that his folks are out of the woods. They need several surgeries, but they’ll live. Gunner’s moving out by Miner’s Lake for now. He’s going to stay with his other cousins. He read my poem and said he liked it, but I think he was being nice.” She stopped, blushing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chatter on like that.”
“Hey, I like it when you talk. It makes me feel like you want me to be part of your life.” I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Now what makes you think he was just being nice about your poem?”
She shook her head, laughing. “Face it, Mom. I’m not cut out to be a poet. I tried, but I’m just not interested. But he asked me to the movies next weekend, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course it is.” I turned around, thrilled to be surrounded by my close friends and family. Well, almost the whole family. Samantha was still missing. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed, I murmured, “Excuse me, I need a breath of air,” and slipped out on the front porch. The clouds were luminous and boiling overhead. Rain would break within minutes.
Joe followed me. “Need a shoulder to cry on?”
I nodded. “Hold on,” I said, and dashed inside, where I snagged up a little candle and a lighter before returning to the porch. “Walk with me,” I said. “I have some good-byes to make.”
We headed next door, through the now darkened lot. I knelt at the base of the yew tree and lit the candle, making sure it was out of the way of any brush or leaves. “Brigit and Brent, be at peace and be happy,” I whispered. Joe wrapped his arms around my waist and I felt the tears begin to flow. “And Sammy, wherever you are, we tried—we tried so hard to bring you home. I’m sorry.”
Joe let go, and I heard him scuffling around in the brush. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He returned with a hand
ful of wet autumn leaves. As he dropped to one knee, my breath caught in my throat.
“I can’t make up for Sammy’s loss. But it just seems the right time to do this, and the right place,” he said. “Emerald, you are a strange and wonderful woman, and a bouquet of autumn leaves seems so appropriate.”
I took them, my stomach fluttering.
“I told you in August that on your birthday I was going to get down on one knee and ask you to be my wife. Well, it’s your birthday today.”
My birthday, and Joe was proposing. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a box. As he opened it, the diffused light from the clouds and streetlights illuminated a gleaming brilliant cut diamond set in a band of Black Hills gold.
“Emerald Rhiannon McGrady O’Brien, will you be my friend, my lover, my companion, my wife? Will you marry me and let me make you and your children happy for the rest of our lives?”
I blinked back the tears and it hit me—this was it, this was real. In the midst of death and pain, joy could grow and life could burgeon forth. I fell to my knees and pulled him into my arms.
“Yes! I love you and the kids adore you. We’re good together, Joe. You told me we would be, early on, and you were right. I can’t think of anyone in the world I’d rather spend my life with except you.”
He broke out in a huge smile and let out a loud whoop as he leapt to his feet, dragging me with him. “The woman said yes! She said yes!” he shouted, so loud everybody in the neighborhood could hear him. He slid the ring on my finger. A perfect fit. “Let’s go tell them, shall we? They’re all on the edge of their seats waiting for your answer.”
“You already told them you were going to ask? What if I’d said no?”
A Harvest of Bones Page 24
