Her eyes widened a little then, because she understood. She backed away from me. I started toward her. The situation wasn’t going at all as planned; in fact, it was totally wrong. It was too risky. But I had no choice now but to go ahead with it.
I grabbed her, hooking my arm around her neck and twisting her against my body. She fought, harder than I expected, but then again, I hadn’t counted on a direct confrontation.
Once I had her back to me, I put my hand over her mouth. She was scratching at my arm. With my other hand, I shook out the plastic bag. I could feel the blood pumping through my ears. I could hear her heels scraping on the floor as I dragged her toward the staircase. I felt panic. I had to do it quickly. I pushed her neck down with my elbow so that I would be able to get the bag over her head. She was making wet sucking noises beneath my hand.
Somehow, I managed to get the bag over her head and I tightened the opening around her neck. I could hear her inhaling the plastic. I was almost there.
Then, all at once, there was something around my own neck. A hand. Crushing my windpipe. I had to let go of her. And I knew it was over. I had failed.
I felt Nick fall from my grasp and could hear her coughing somewhere near my feet. The rustle of the bag.
“Nick.” I could hear Uncle Hughes behind me.
I couldn’t see her because my head was tilted back from the pressure, but after a moment I heard her say: “It’s all right.” It was more of a croak, actually.
Uncle Hughes pulled me around to face him. There was no point in fighting him or asking for mercy. I could see it in his face. I thought about Daisy, about showing her where the maid was killed and the arrowhead and the way Elena Nunes tried to tell us her secrets before she died. It was my turn now.
“It’s Tyler,” I said.
Uncle Hughes looked at me, dead in the eye. And then he pushed me down the stairs.
My mother has been reading to me. She does this every week, reads me the current events from the newspaper, as if I’ve gone blind as well as being paralyzed and mute.
She reads to me for about an hour and then it’s time for her to go. Today, I hear about the antiwar demonstrations in Chicago. They had to call in the National Guard and it will evidently cost the city $150,000. The newspapers are referring to it as the “Days of Rage.” This bores me. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard anything interesting for a year. Not since that night.
Then my mother says, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, we’ve had some drama at the house,” and I think maybe my luck is beginning to change.
She puts down her pile of newspaper clippings.
“Well, Daisy was down for the weekend. Did I tell you that? I think I told you last week she was coming. Anyway, guess who shows up? Tyler. He drove all the way from the city, apparently. And, as you know, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since they broke it off.”
My mother pulls her chair in a little closer. She doesn’t want the nurses to hear about our dirty linen.
“I have no idea how on earth he knew she was there, but there he was, larger than life, sitting out in front of the house in that ridiculous car of his. So, of course, I tell Daisy, and dearest, you’ll never believe what she does. She goes down to the basement and comes up with a bag full of tennis balls and her racquet. I was just breathless with anticipation.”
She’s practically breathless now.
“So, she goes out to the porch and calls his name. And when he looks like he’s about to get out of his car, she reaches into the bag and takes out a ball, and then, oh, so carefully, she drops it and whacks it with all her might at his car. And Lord, she does have good aim, I’ll say that for her.”
I can see tears of laughter welling up in my mother’s eyes.
“Well, then, of course, he starts yelling. But Daisy, she just keeps going, hitting one ball after the other until he finally has no choice but to drive away or have his windshield knocked out. Oh, Ed, I was nearly crying, I was laughing so hard.
“Then she comes into the house and sees me. And I felt a little sorry, because I didn’t want her to think I found her heartbreak funny. I’ve told you how unhappy she was for a long time after he left her, poor little thing. But she just looks at me and says: ‘Well, Aunt Helena. I think that fixed his bacon.’ And then she laughs and says, ‘Hell’s bells,’ in that old way of hers. I must say, dearest, I’ve never loved that girl more.”
As my mother is telling me this, I can feel the muscles in my cheeks pulling and I realize I’m smiling. My mother is wiping her eyes, and she sees me. “Oh. A smile. Well, that’s one for the books.” Then she gathers up her things and kisses my cheek and then I think perhaps I don’t mind hearing the news so much after all.
As I lay there at the bottom of the stairs in the darkness, I could hear them. I must have passed out, but at some point afterward, I was aware of what was going on around me.
“Oh, Hughes,” Aunt Nick was saying, her voice rasping. I imagined that her throat had probably taken quite a beating from where I’d held her. “Oh god.”
I could hear her crying. I felt very cold.
“We have to call an ambulance,” she said.
I could see her then. She was sitting next to me and I think she was touching me, but I couldn’t feel her hand. “Ed? Ed, can you move? Hughes, get a blanket.”
“I think …” But he didn’t say anything else, so he must have gone.
Then, out of the shadow, I saw him lifting something over me and I had the strange thought that I was being buried.
“I don’t think he can hear me,” Aunt Nick said. “Did you call?”
“I called.”
Then I could hear footsteps on the stairs.
Nick whispered: “Jesus, what are we going to tell Helena?”
“Listen to me.” Uncle Hughes spoke very slowly. “He was sleepwalking and he fell down the stairs. We were both in bed and heard something and came out to check. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said.
I didn’t hear anything for a while but I saw small movements out of the corner of my eye. I blinked.
Finally, I heard Aunt Nick say: “Hughes. Listen to me, I tried to tell you.” Her voice had some kind of urgency to it.
“I know …”
“No, you have to understand. Nothing happened. With Tyler. It’s not like … he just wouldn’t stop. I think he thought that because …”
“Nick, I know.”
I tried to move, but found I couldn’t. There was some pain, but only in my skull. My skull felt like it might cave in. Aunt Nick leaned over me. She used her hand to cradle my head.
“Where’s the goddamn ambulance?” she said.
“It’s on its way.”
Silence. Then: “Hughes?”
“Yes?”
“It’s the strangest thing, but I have this feeling …” I had to strain to hear her now. “Like everything …” She stopped.
“Yes,” Uncle Hughes said. “Everything is.”
And with that, stars burst in my eyes and the whole world went dark.
“Well, it’s a red-letter day for you,” the nurse says. “You have another visitor.”
“Hello, Ed.”
It’s Daisy. I can’t see her yet, but I can hear her. I concentrate on my neck, but it doesn’t move. I almost can’t believe she’s here. She’s only come once before to see me, right at the beginning. I wondered if maybe she knew about the staircase and all the rest of it, and had decided she couldn’t forgive me, as Aunt Nick had predicted.
But she’s standing over me with a smile on her face, so I guess she doesn’t hate me after all. She looks pale, but it’s October and her tan will have faded by now. I look at her and try to make my eyes communicate what my mouth can’t.
“My goodness,” she says. “What are those wriggly eyes for?” She bends down and, placing her hand on the side of my face, kisses me on the mouth. It’s light, like a butterfly wing.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to
see you. I’ve been very sad. But I’m feeling better, now.” Her blond hair is shorter, like a halo. She looks around. “It’s so stuffy in here. Why don’t they open a window?”
She sits down on the chair by my bed.
“So, Ed Lewis, they tell me you’re not speaking to us anymore. What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
I smile.
“Not good enough,” Daisy says. “I’m not that easy anymore.”
She opens a canvas bag she’s brought with her, and I’m reminded of the story about tennis. “Since I’m sure you’ve already heard my whole sordid history from your mother, and since you don’t plan on talking, I brought some poems along. I thought I might read to you, if you’d like. Unless you’re bored with that?”
I just look at her.
“No? Good.” As she pulls out the book, the nurse comes back in.
“I’m sorry, Miss Derringer, but we normally wash Ed’s hair on Thursdays. After his mother leaves.”
“Oh,” Daisy says. “Well, sure. Maybe I can help.”
“I’m sure he’d love that. Wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, I’m sure he would.” She winks at me.
There’s a whole production while they get me out of bed and into a wheelchair. I’m a little annoyed because it’s time I could be spending with Daisy. Then the nurse wheels me into the bathroom and Daisy follows behind. The nurse attaches a tray around my shoulders and neck, so the water can run off.
“So, I’m just going to get his hair damp and then we can shampoo him,” the nurse says.
I don’t know why I’ve never noticed the nurse’s wrists before, they’re so translucent they’re almost blue. I realize I don’t even know her name. I remind myself to pay more attention to her.
I feel the warm water running over my scalp. I look at Daisy. She smiles. She puts her hand out and the nurse squirts some of the pink soap into her palm. Then Daisy begins massaging my scalp. I can feel her hands, warm, against my head, the tips of her fingers making my skin tingle all the way to my shoulders. Some of the soapsuds slide down my forehead and into my eye. It stings and my right index finger twitches. The doctor is right. I need to make more of an effort.
“I’m sorry,” Daisy says, laughing. “I’m not very good at this, am I? Maybe I’ll let you do it and I’ll read to him.”
She leaves us in the bathroom and returns with the book. “Wallace Stevens,” she says and shows me the cover. “All right, let’s see.” She flips through the book, smiling slightly at something on the page. “Oh, I love this one,” she says. She leans against the wall and begins speaking: “ ‘The houses are haunted / By white night-gowns.’ ”
I listen to the sound of her voice and think it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. So clear and true and steady. I want to say the words with her. I try to force air up through my throat. Nothing happens.
“ ‘None are green, / Or purple with green rings, / Or green with yellow rings,’ “ she says. “ ‘None of them are strange.’ ”
I try again and this time I manage to make a small gurgle, although no one can hear it because of the water running in the sink. But I can hear it.
“ ‘People are not going / To dream of baboons and periwinkles,’ “ Daisy says.
I look at her. I can hear her.
“ ‘Only, here and there, an old sailor, / Drunk and asleep in his boots, / Catches tigers / In red weather.’ ”
She looks at me. Her eyes are a little shiny, although it may be the steam from the water. I think about love and about all the nightgowns that are not white. I think about Aunt Nick, and Frank Wilcox, and even about Uncle Hughes. I think about Daisy and her book of poems. I think about tigers in red weather. I like that.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a number of people who have conspired with me, some unwittingly, on this novel. I am indebted to Wallace Stevens, whose poetry moved me to write this particular book, and to my grandfather, whose lovely memoir served as a starting point.
My editors: Kate Harvey at Picador, who has my eternal gratitude and troth of friendship for her immensely sensitive and ingenious editing; and the brilliant Judy Clain at Little, Brown, whose vision and commitment continue to blow me away. I owe them a lifetime of perfectly chilled martinis.
My publishers—Michael Pietsch at Little, Brown, and Paul Baggaley at Picador—and the whole band of talented people at both imprints are to be thanked profusely.
Caroline Wood, my agent at Felicity Bryan, is—in a word—incredible. She has also taught me that, sometimes, there can be too many dinner parties.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Andrew Motion, who tutored me in the way of avocado pears, among countless other things.
In terms of longevity and loyalty, my biggest thanks go to the following writers: Emma Chapman, Tom Feltham, Liz Gifford, Carolina Gonzalez-Carvajal, Kat Gordon, and Rebecca Lloyd James.
Finally, I owe a debt I cannot repay to my crazy, amazing family, who, frankly, have put up with a lot: my mother and father, Betsy Chapin and Eric Klaussmann; my brother, Eric Klaussmann; and my other dad, John Grummon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Liza Klaussmann has worked as a journalist for the New York Times for over a decade. She received a BA in creative writing from Barnard College and was awarded its Howard M. Teichmann Prize for Prose. She now resides in London, where she recently completed an MA with distinction in creative writing at Royal Holloway, University of London.
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