Blue Moon Bay

by Lisa Wingate

  Clay turned and walked backward, cupping a hand around his ear in a gesture meant to indicate that he couldn’t hear her. He grinned as he wheeled around and trotted off to the barn. No doubt he knew that if any of us went back in the house, we’d be here another hour, trying to break away again. Already, Ruth looked exhausted, and the niece who lived in the house, Mary and Emily’s mom, had gently suggested that it was time to wrap up the birthday gathering.

  Ruth frowned at me and shook her head as my goofball brother disappeared into the frigid dairy barn to get dressed for his date.

  “Don’t look at me,” I said. “I can’t tell him anything. He doesn’t listen.” I moved across the porch in her direction, while the uncs and my mother excused themselves and headed toward the funeral sedan.

  Ruth’s hand settled on my arm, her fingers trembling. “He has always listened to you,” she said quietly.

  I lost myself in the pale, cloudy blue of her eyes. It was hard to imagine never seeing her again, knowing that she had moved on from this world and unpacked her suitcase in heaven, as she had often referred to it when there was a funeral at Harmony House. Ruth not being on this earth was an impossible thought, like trying to contemplate the contents of a black hole in space.

  “He reminds me of your grandfather,” Ruth said.

  “My grandfather? Really?” I’d always thought of Clay as being just like my mom—her spitting image in word, deed, and opinion, if not in looks. I was like Dad, and Clay was like Mom. Together, we were an odd couple, like Oscar and Felix.

  “Ohhh . . .” Ruth’s eyes rounded. “I could tell you stories.”

  That’s just it, I thought, you could. But I wouldn’t be around to hear them. I wanted to hear the stories. I wanted to know how Clay was like my grandfather. But in another way, I was afraid. I was afraid to bring up the past. I’d worked so hard to exorcise all the family tragedy from my life, to rid myself of the ties to this place, that time. To leave behind the depressed, withdrawn, frightened girl who had wandered through her last year of high school and her first year of college under a black cloud, desperately trying to find a way out.

  Who would I be, if I let the past come to life again, allowed it to put down roots and grow leaves, renew its colors? Would I sink into the shadow that had consumed me after my father’s death? Would I be even worse? Somewhere deep inside me, was there the potential to become like my mother had been—practically catatonic, completely dysfunctional?

  I didn’t want to take that risk, to allow it in. I’d changed my mind about even asking Ruth if she knew more about my father’s death. What was the point in revisiting it? I had a good life in Seattle, a satisfying life, a job I’d worked hard for, an existence that was . . . was . . .

  “Come on, Heather,” Mom called, halfway into the passenger’s seat of the funeral sedan. “Aren’t you riding home with us?”

  “I’m driving Clay’s truck home,” I answered. “With Roger.” Mom gave me a surprised look, then glanced at Roger, rolling on the lawn with Mary, Emily, and a sheepdog. I added hopefully, “Unless you want to take Roger with you.” It was worth a try, but Mom was quick to shake her head and slip into the sedan.

  I turned to Ruth. “Or unless you want to keep Roger here. It’s just like having Clay around, only with four legs and a drooling problem.”

  Ruth swatted me softly and clucked her tongue. I could almost hear her quoting one of her special proverbs, as she so often had. The man who speaks ill of others, foremost speaks ill of himself.

  “It’s true,” I defended playfully, and she swatted me again, then reached up and fixed the hood of my coat, where it was balled inside the neck. Her fingers were like ice against my skin. I slipped my hand over hers, held it. “Go on inside and rest. It’s too cold to stand out here. I can wait for Clay by the car.”

  She nodded wearily. “You come to visit me tomorrow. I have a story to tell you.”

  “I’d like that.” But in the back of my mind, I was thinking, Tomorrow is Monday. I needed to be back at work. But so far I hadn’t accomplished what I’d come here for. I hadn’t convinced Mom to return to Seattle and sign the papers. Now, by agreeing to drive Clay’s car home, I’d missed another chance to corral the family. What was Mel going to say when he learned that I wouldn’t be in Seattle Monday morning, and I still hadn’t settled the business about the land deal? He’ll decide that if I can’t even take care of this little detail, then I don’t have any business taking the lead on the Proxica project. He’ll use it as an excuse. Whatever confidence he has in me will be completely undermined. . . .

  I felt stress heating up inside me, working toward a boil, a strange contrast to the cool touch of Ruth’s hand. If I hurried home, I could work on my mother and the uncs while Clay was busy with Amy, try once again to make them see reason. “I’m not sure if I’ll be here, though,” I said, and Ruth’s hand slipped away. I pulled my jacket closer over my shoulders.

  “You’ll call in the morning, then?” Ruth pressed, which for Ruth was unusual. She was never pushy; only kind, strong, and tolerant.

  “Of course I will.” I glanced over at her, and in the space of an instant, felt a shift in my thoughts. What is wrong with you? The voice in my head demanded. This woman kept you on your feet during the worst time in your life and now she’s dying of cancer, and you’re worried about taking an extra day off of work? “You know what, let’s just plan on it,” I said as Clay exited the barn in rumpled jeans and a sweatshirt, then stuffed his other clothes in the toolbox. Now that the day was cooling off, he’d finally donned a heavier shirt and long pants. “What time should I come? What’s best for you?”

  Ruth’s lips lifted at the corners, pleating her skin like a puckered quilt. “Come for lunch. We’ll sit on the sun porch and watch the cows go out on the winter wheat. They’re so happy out there.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Only a farm wife would consider watching cows graze to be entertainment. “Can I bring anything?”

  She mulled the question, then raised a finger, indicating a sudden and pleasing thought. “Bring some of that wonderful bratwurst from the Waterbird store—the ones in the natural casings. Do they sell those any longer? Come at eleven, and we’ll bake bauernbrot to go with it.”

  A fond memory danced through my mind—one of Ruth and me in Uncle Herbert’s kitchen. She was trying to teach me to make something—some dish with dumplings on top. I didn’t want to learn. I wanted to wander off by myself, not talk to anyone, not be around anyone, just hide away and not think of anything. But Ruth insisted that I help her cook. In reality, she knew I would be no help at all—Ruth could handle a kitchen completely on her own—but she wanted me there with her, singing the song about Lake Oh-Poor-Me, rather than hiding in some dark corner, drowning in it.

  “How about if I just bring lunch?” I suggested, thinking that she probably didn’t need to be cooking and no doubt her niece had plenty to do, taking care of kids and farm chores. “I’ll bring enough for everyone and just buy some potato salad and beans from the Waterbird. How many do you usually have here for lunch?” Around the dairy, the numbers were always changing, depending on what combinations of family were living in the various houses and which boys or girls from nearby families were working there.

  Ruth patted my hand, her attention turning momentarily to Mary and Emily, who were at present trying to boost Roger into the lowest branch of an oak tree. Oddly enough, he was cooperating with their efforts. “We’ll cook. Mary and Emily will be disappointed if we don’t. You can supply the bratwurst. . . . And will you do something for me? I wondered if you might bring something from your uncle’s house?”

  “Sure.” My curiosity piqued, but I was suddenly aware of apprehension nibbling at the edges of my mind like a mouse trying to breach a cereal box. Was I jumping the gun, making plans? What if I called work, and Mel went postal about my taking a few more days off? I had plenty of vacation stored up, but that didn’t mean that Mel intended for me to actually take i
t. “What do you need?”

  Ruth glanced toward the lawn again, as if to make sure the girls couldn’t hear us. “There may be some things . . . some . . . sketches of mine at Harmony House—tucked away in one of the closets or in the basement, perhaps. Your uncle probably doesn’t even remember them. They may have been thrown away years ago, but will you look?”

  Curiosity and something else . . . a tender sense that I owed Ruth this much and more pushed aside the looming dread of contacting Mel. I remembered Ruth sitting on Uncle Herbert’s back deck with a drawing pad late in the afternoons when she was waiting to carpool home with a couple of ladies who did the cooking at the Waterbird store. Somehow, I’d gathered that Ruth’s sketching time was private. She seldom showed me what she was drawing. When I asked her about it, she bought me a drawing pad of my own—a sketchbook and a journal. It helps to put your troubles on paper, she’d said in that cheery, simplistic way of hers. Not to look at over and over again, but just to throw away. She’d lifted a mixing spoon into the air, and I knew a Scripture was coming. Ruth loved quotations of all sorts, but she’d always stopped what she was doing when a Bible quote was on the way. “Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old.”

  “Of course I’ll look for your sketches,” I told her now. “I’ll ask Uncle Herbert if he knows where they are.”

  She shook her head quickly, then pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. A sharp breeze rounded the corner and sliced its way along the porch, and she moved back a step in the doorway. “No, just look for them. Bring them to me if you can, but don’t say anything to Herbert.” The request had a mysterious quality.

  “I will,” I agreed, then told her good-bye.

  Clay was headed toward the dairy barn with Mary and Emily when I reached the Ladybug. The girls were giggling and hanging from his arms with both hands, jumping and swinging through the air every time he yelled, “Look out! Alligator!” or “Oh no, it’s a tarantula!”

  “Do you need a ride to Amy’s?” I called after him, the truck door squealing in protest as I opened it.

  Clay spun around, slinging the girls like fins on a pinwheel, as they curled their feet into their skirts. “Nah, Amy’s coming to get me. If she doesn’t show up pretty soon, I’ll just start walking that way until I run into her.”

  “Okay,” I said, then left him to play with the other kids and climbed into the Ladybug, praying for a chug-free journey. As I wheeled around in the yard and started out the driveway, something bolted into my path, and I hit the brakes, causing them to squeal long and loud. Near the dairy barn, a teenage boy in jeans, a barn coat, and a hat stopped to look at me. He pointed to the front of my vehicle, and I stretched upward, catching sight of ears and a fluffy blond head. I’d almost forgotten Roger. Putting the truck in Park, I opened the door, and Roger scrambled across my lap before I could get out to allow him access.

  As we rolled down the driveway, Roger yipped at Clay and the girls, now investigating something underneath the edge of the barn. Roger smelled like he might have been crawling around under there himself, and I hated to imagine what he’d left behind on the girls’ dresses. Rolling down the window on his side to create a vacuum seemed the most prudent decision, so I leaned over and took care of it before we headed for home, me saying silent prayers for the Ladybug’s continued health, and Roger happily lolling his tongue in the flow of fresh air before finally settling down for a nap, all worn out from playing with dairy dogs and cute little Mennonite girls.

  When we returned to Uncle Herbert’s house, the place was empty. There was no note and no explanation as to where everyone had gone. My frustration over being ducked by the family again inched up, but since I’d already decided to stay an extra day to see Ruth, there seemed to be no point in agonizing over it. I decided to take advantage of the quiet time to go down to the cottage, gather my laundry, and throw my things in the washer, so I’d have some clean clothes for tomorrow. The phone in the kitchen reminded me that a call to Mel was an absolute must-do tonight, and sooner was probably better.

  I picked up the receiver, put it down, then picked it up again, only to set it back in the cradle. Around me, the house creaked and groaned, as cold and stiff as an old man climbing out of his chair on a winter night. My skin tingled with chills that had nothing to do with the drafts around the window sashes. I’d always hated being alone in this house. From the time I was big enough to understand that Uncle Herbert was in the business of handling final remains, I’d made any excuse I could not to come to Harmony House whenever we’d visited my grandparents out at the family farm. Usually, it was just as well, because Uncle Herbert’s house was tied up with the funeral planning sessions, services, and visitations, as well as Aunt Esther’s social engagements. Plus, Aunt Esther didn’t really seem to like kids. Children running around weren’t conducive to the peaceful, somewhat sophisticated atmosphere she was trying to cultivate.

  That last year in Moses Lake, Clay had come home from school with countless ghost stories about the place. Legend had it that a young belle had hung herself in the stairway after her beau left her for someone else. Uncle Herbert said no such thing ever happened. I hadn’t been upstairs since, and I’d always known what happened in the mortuary rooms in the basement, so I avoided that area, as well. That didn’t leave much territory.

  Now even the kitchen felt spooky.

  I heard Roger outside, and thought about the clothes that Clay had shoved in the back of the truck. Maybe, before making the Mel call, I’d grab those few things from the toolbox along with my laundry, then start a batch and bring Roger into the house to curb the creep factor. Roger could provide moral support while I called Mel.

  The thought had barely begun to process before I was in the utility room, turning the heavy glass knob. When I opened the door, Roger was on the veranda, happily gnawing on something that may have been leather at one time, but now had the pockmarked, slimy consistency of a rawhide chew bone. It looked suspiciously like my wallet.

  “Give me that!” I squealed and made a lunge. Roger leapt to the right, and we played a rousing game of keep-away on the frozen decking. Finally Roger bolted into the house, where we toured, at high speed, many of the rooms I’d never liked. I was reminded, while hunting for him upstairs, that Harmony House was filled with beautiful architectural details: ornately carved mantels gracing every room and gorgeous pilasters lining the halls. It was a grand house, if you didn’t think of it as a funeral home.

  By the time I finally cornered Roger in an upstairs bathroom and pried what remained of my wallet from his jowls, some of the creepy feeling had dissipated. If there were any ghosts watching, they were probably either laughing their heads off or feeling sorry for me by now. The exercise had helped me to pull my head together a bit, too. It was silly for me to be scared of a house. I wasn’t a child anymore. It’s no different than any other house, I told myself as I went downstairs with Roger trailing behind me, looking defeated. He sat at my feet, watching the emptying and towel-drying of my wallet and its contents. Miraculously, everything was still inside.

  The newfound sense of empowerment from regaining my stuff made me feel almost whole again, except for the hollow spot in the center of my being, where my iPhone should have been. Trying not to think about it, I picked up the kitchen phone and reinstated my credit cards, then made my call to Mel. Fortunately, he didn’t answer, so I was able to leave a voice mail explaining that the loss of my purse and some family issues were going to keep me in Moses Lake a couple of days longer. I left the funeral home number in case he needed to call me, and I promised to check in.

  Now that I had my wallet with the little card that explained how to dial into my voice mail from another phone, I decided to check. There was a message from Gary the dentist, of all people. He wanted to tell me what a nice time his family had during our visit, following the rescue from the Dallas bus station. He also wanted me to get in touch sometime soon regarding designs for his new clinics.
He and his partners were talking about building at least three more in the next year.

  I mused on that as I slipped into my coat and went to the cottage in the thickening darkness to get my laundry. Then I headed to Clay’s truck to gather the dirty clothes he’d deposited there. Maybe designing dental clinics wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t a state-of-the-art commercial production facility, but it was something. Maybe Gary really had the kind of money it would take to engage our firm. I could talk to Mel about discounting our fees. The man had saved my life, after all.

  The Ladybug’s toolbox seemed to be rusted shut when I attempted to open it, but muscle and determination finally won the battle. I pulled out Clay’s frayed khaki cargo shorts first and quickly realized that his wallet and cell phone were in there. Apparently Amy was not only driving on the date, but she’d be paying for it, as well. Dropping the pants into the basket with my laundry, I reached into the toolbox again to grab the shirt. Something glass slid out of the pocket and clattered against the bottom, then rolled to one side. Behind me, Roger barked, and I jumped backward, the shifting moon shadows having set my nerves on edge.

  “Roger, cut that out.”

  He answered with a growl that was surprisingly menacing, for Roger, and he homed in on something near the corner of the house. The branches of the bushes moved in the breeze, and for a moment I thought I saw someone there. A man in a dark coat and a fedora hat. Heebie-jeebies crawled over my skin, drawing forth an uncontrollable shudder.

  “Stupid dog,” I muttered, reaching into the toolbox and fishing around for whatever had dropped out of Clay’s shirt. My fingers touched something small and round, roughly the size and shape of a prescription bottle, and a disquieting thought slid through my mind, fluid like the shadows. Why would Clay be carrying medication? Despite his reluctance to wear a coat and his strange eating habits, he was just about the healthiest person I knew. The object rolled in my palm as I lifted my hand and held it in the dim light fanning from the kitchen windows. It wasn’t a prescription bottle, but it was a bottle of some kind—small and round, made of glass, with a plastic screw-on lid. There was a residue of something loose and silty inside.