Child of a Rainless Year

by Lindskold, Jane

  “Your mother didn’t share your love of color, did she?” he commented. “She didn’t redecorate the House in full, but in her private rooms, she preferred muted colors or white.”

  “It’s elegant,” I said. “So was she, and she certainly didn’t avoid rich colors in her personal attire. She revelled in them. I remember how her clothing almost seemed to sing it was so vivid.”

  Mikey smiled. “It might well have, you know. Has it ever occurred to you that you are likely a synesthete?”

  I knew the term. It was common enough in artistic circles where the idea that color might be heard or that sounds might have colors and shapes was a provocative one.

  “I hadn’t really,” I said. “Certainly, I don’t show any of the usual signs—no colored or textured alphabets or numbers.”

  “Even so,” Mikey said. “You frequently refer to colors as making sounds. I suspect that as a child you were more acutely aware of it. Apparently, synesthesia is more common in children than in adults.”

  “It’s that liminal space thing again,” I said with sudden insight. “A child doesn’t draw the same distinctions as an adult does. I remember thinking quite firmly that numbers had gender—that one and five were boys, while two and four were girls.”

  “What about three?” Mikey asked.

  I laughed. “I don’t remember, a boy, I think.”

  “So boys are odd,” Mikey chuckled. “That sounds like a healthy female attitude.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him as if I were a girl, not a mature woman past her fiftieth birthday.

  Mikey forbore to return the gesture. “Seriously, Mira, synesthesia is a documented phenomenon. No one doubts the reality of it—though not all who claim to possess it do. I think you are a synesthete, but rather than your brain assigning colors to abstract concepts, your colors have sounds.”

  “Or did,” I said a little sadly. “I seem to have outgrown it. This room is quiet enough.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mira,” Mikey said, almost scolding. “As I said, your own words gave me indication of your probable tendency.”

  “But, that’s not why you had me come up here, is it?” I asked. “We could have discussed synesthesia downstairs as well or better than here. I think there’s a book or two on the subject on the shelves.”

  “Interesting,” Mikey said, “but, you’re right, that isn’t what I wanted to discuss with you. It’s a sensitive matter. I even thought about asking you to take me for a drive, but I think that in the long run it’s better we air it here.”

  “What is it?” I said. “Have you found something out about Colette?”

  “No. Not Colette. And it’s not something I’m even sure about.” Mikey looked very uncomfortable. “It’s about Domingo.”

  “More about Domingo? And this is something you couldn’t say in front of him?”

  I know I sounded angry, but I didn’t apologize, nor did Mikey seem to expect an apology. If anything, he seemed relieved that I would stand up for Domingo.

  “Yes. About Domingo—and as for saying it in front of him—I wanted to see how you wanted to approach the matter. He’s your handyman, your caretaker—and, more importantly, your friend.”

  This didn’t sound good.

  “What is it? Something else you uncovered in your research?”

  “Yes and no. Remember our discussion about how Phineas House was placed where it could ideally take advantage of the area’s feng shui?”

  I nodded.

  “And how,” Mikey went on, “the shape of the lot played a part in Phineas House’s effectiveness?”

  I nodded again. Mikey waited a moment to see if I would say anything, then continued.

  “We probably will never know for certain if the truncating of the lot was done deliberately, or merely to raise money. There might even have been a combination of motives—money was needed, and someone who hoped that changing the shape of the lot would effect Phineas House’s effectiveness prompted the sale.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “That’s how it was when I was a child. The lots had been sold off. There were houses close on either side, and one along the back. We didn’t have much more of a backyard than what is the courtyard today.”

  “But today you have back the entire property,” Mikey said, “because of three providential fires, and trustees who thought to take advantage of them.”

  I managed a thin smile. “And I thank you for it. I can’t imagine Phineas House in its current loud paint job squashed between two other houses.”

  “Nor can I,” Mikey agreed. “Mira, I was one of your trustees when the properties came up for sale. The first fire was to the property in the rear and occurred in the early eighties. That had always been a peculiarly shaped lot, and no one was really interested in it. The owners let it go rather than pay taxes on it, and we bought it from the city.

  “The second fire occurred a year or so later to the house on the left of Phineas House. This house had been on the market for quite a while, and hadn’t been occupied for several years. We had considered buying it as an asset for the estate, but the asking price was quite high, especially after the owners learned that the offer came from the owner of the neighboring property.”

  “So?”

  “We had already dropped negotiations when the structure caught fire. It was wooden, and went up so fast that the trees closest to it were singed. Police had some suspicion that arson was involved.”

  “Oh?”

  “The electricity and gas had long been disconnected. There were no lightning storms that might have caused the fire. The house itself was empty—no fuel in the heaters. No piles of rags lying around. It seemed that someone might have set the fire.”

  “Did the city investigate?”

  “Not in any detail. The prevailing theory was that sometimes wooden houses burn for no apparent reason, especially in such a dry climate. The second theory was that some bums might have been squatting in the house, and caused the fire by accident. It wasn’t until the third fire that the city began to seriously consider there might be an arsonist operating.”

  I didn’t like where this was heading, but I continued to listen politely.

  “After the fire, we bought the vacant lot for the estate. It was going cheap, and the property did belong to Phineas House’s configuration. We thought about inquiring about purchasing the remaining house and lot, but we’d had to answer more than a few questions from the police after the house on the other side had burned—some bright mind thought we might have done it when we couldn’t get the property any other way. When we proved that we had been out of negotiations for over a year at that point, and noted that we had no plans to build anything on the vacant lot nor to sell it, the investigation into our possible involvement ceased.”

  “After all,” I said, “what motive would you have to buy a lot adjoining a house that was vacant? If you’d wanted to build a new house there, or sell the lot at a profit, well, maybe there would be some reason, but buying a lot and paying taxes on it just to improve the feng shui of Phineas House?”

  “You’re being flippant,” Mikey said, “but I think that was pretty much what the police thought. Had Phineas House been occupied immediately thereafter, they might have had reason to question again, but this was almost twenty years ago, and the House would remain empty for a long time to come.”

  “There was a third fire,” I reminded him, “and you said this has to do with Domingo.”

  “The third fire,” Mikey continued imperturbably, “did not occur until three years later. By this time, the structure to the right of Phineas House was no longer inhabited and was on the market. Like the second fire—like the first, if we’re being completest—it was quick burning. No one was hurt, no other property was damaged. This time, however, the police were certain arson was involved. They found tell-tale marks that showed where gasoline or some similar liquid had been poured. However, they could not find a motive for the fire, and eventually the fire was di
smissed as hooliganism.”

  “Were you questioned this time?” I asked.

  “No. We were not,” Mikey said with a smile. “We had not offered on the property when it went on the market, nor did we offer after the fire. We finally bought it when a real estate agent, acting on behalf of the seller, came to us.”

  “So,” I said, “three convenient fires … but you think there is something more. You think Domingo set those fires, don’t you?”

  Mikey didn’t try to deny it. “I have no proof, Mira, but circumstances are very interesting. The early 1980s are when the Montezuma Hotel was bought by the United World College. As you must remember, the Montezuma Hotel—most specifically, the Castle—was built in an attempt to curtail the ability of Phineas House to channel local currents. I’ve done some investigating, and although the Castle was not immediately put into use, from the time the property was purchased, even after the formal dedication of the college in 1983, there was considerable construction on the property.”

  “Construction,” I said, “that you think did something to negate whatever influence the Montezuma had on Phineas House.”

  “If not negate,” Mikey replied, “at least ameliorate, moderate, reduce. Remember what Domingo said earlier? The early eighties is when his attachment to Phineas House increased, when he began to think of learning skills that would serve the House, when he began to define himself not as a man who viewed his caretaker position as a job that brought him a place to live and a small salary, but as his vocation.”

  “That’s a little strong,” I said, “but I admit you have a point. Do you think Domingo learned that Phineas House had once had more property, and deliberately set out to rebalance the lot? I can’t believe that. Even if he did burn down all the surrounding structures, he had no guarantee that you trustees would conveniently buy up the land.”

  “No, I don’t believe that,” Mikey said. “What I think is more likely is that Phineas House, well, put the idea in his head. It must have been aware of fire, given the number of times its rival the Montezuma burned.”

  “You mean Domingo was the House’s puppet? If it wanted puppets, why wouldn’t it use the silent women?”

  “Domingo may have been a puppet, though it is hard for me to imagine the House having the volition to actually control a living person. As for the silent women, they are extensions of the House’s desire to serve its inhabitants. Without inhabitants, I suspect they do not fully manifest.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “I think what happened was in between Domingo being a deliberate arsonist and being the House’s puppet. I think the House dreamed and Domingo shared those dreams. Eventually, Domingo acted on those dreams. When you think about it, the fires were all quite like fires Domingo would set. They were well-planned, no one was hurt, no surrounding property was hurt. The only thing that happened was an obstruction to the House’s perfection was removed.”

  “I don’t like it,” I protested. “Domingo is a builder, not a destroyer.”

  “But he’ll rip out old wood that’s grown weak or rotten to put in new. He’ll tear out weeds that are choking his plants. Really, there’s not a lot of difference between the destroying and building—at least from the point of view of the weeds.”

  I glowered at Mikey. “You aren’t going to talk to Domingo about this—not without a lot more proof than you’ve given me.”

  “That is why I wanted to speak with you about the matter,” Mikey said with deceptive mildness. “I wanted your opinion on how to handle the matter.”

  “You won’t bring it up,” I repeated stubbornly. “I don’t care if your theory is correct—and I don’t know if it is—or not. This is slander of the worst possible type.”

  Mikey held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “As you wish, Mira, as you wish. I will not speak a single word on the matter, but I felt I had to tell you. Aldo Pincas created more than he imagined when he had Phineas House built. None of us really understand it or what it is capable of.”

  I heard the warning in Mikey’s words, and nodded stiffly to acknowledge it.

  “Fine. But we say nothing of this to Domingo. Nothing.”

  26

  Hellerer describes a sensation of literally feeling herself ″in″ time, moving inside an hour or a day, walking within a week, looking behind her at the ″smaller″ previous days or weeks as they recede in the distance.

  —Patricia Lynne Duffy,

  Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens

  INSIDE THE LINES

  Saturday’s kaleidoscope, the one holding the leaden mirrors of Saturn, wasn’t cased in lead—as Venus had been in copper or Jupiter in tin—a fact for which I was grateful since I was going to be handling it. Nor was the tube dull grey. I guess after iron, tin, and silver, Colette had wearied of that hue. Instead, the casing was thick enamel that flowed like watered silk through all the shades of yellow, from sunny brilliance to the pale tint found in the inner petals of grass flowers.

  But what first caught the eye was not the yellow casing, but the elaborate object chamber. A handblown sphere had been filled with golden-orange liquid in which glitter in the same shades had been suspended. The sphere was ringed around with flat pieces of enameled metal, richly colored after the fashion of Saturn’s shifting rings. I’d been too overwhelmed the first time I’d inspected the cabalistic kaleidoscopes to think about the artistry of this piece, but now I took time to give it the appreciation it deserved.

  Saturday midmorning once again found Mikey Hart and I in the downstairs front parlor. I sat in the window seat that had been my favorite when I was a child, feeling still some of the same sheltered protectedness of the spot. I needed that feeling, for I realized I was scared stiff to look through the eyepiece and see what the kaleidoscope might reveal.

  Mikey patiently waited out my fidgeting, then said, “Well, Mira, how well does lead reflect?”

  It was exactly the right question to ask me, for it engaged my curiosity. I knew I’d glanced through the lens at least once, but the impressions were intermingled with impressions from the others I’d inspected that day. Hard as I tried to remember, I couldn’t recall how the lead mirrors had managed to act as reflectors.

  I lifted the kaleidoscope to my eye and turned toward the window, discovering as I did so that within Saturn’s sphere, when light reflects off of lead, it becomes gold, golden light breaking into nearly monochrome mandalas.

  Sunflakes, I thought, like snowflakes, sparkling with color, singing with light. It wasn’t like this before, I’m sure I’d remember if it had been. I guess this means it’s ready to be used for scrying.

  I gasped as a particularly beautiful sunflake took form, and reflexively started to lower the kaleidoscope so Mikey could have a look. In my peripheral vision I saw him making shooing motions.

  “You keep it, Mira. Take a good look. This is the one that is supposed to reveal lost articles and secrets. Lost a sock lately or maybe your glasses? This is the time to find them.”

  I didn’t wear glasses, and a sock had hardly touched my foot through New Mexico’s warm summer. I knew Mikey was teasing me. I was surrounded with puzzles and secrets enough, including and especially the mystery of wherever it was that Colette had gone when she vanished.

  But was a person a lost object? I didn’t know, and maybe I was just a little fearful of what I might find out. After all, what if she was dead? Would I see her corpse in a grave? Her ashes scattered on the winds? Her bones gnawed by scavengers spread about some isolated arroyo?

  Instead I concentrated instead on learning one of Colette’s secrets, focusing with all my might on finding the solution to the question I had never asked her.

  “Who is my father?” I thought—or maybe I said it aloud. I don’t really know. “Who is he or was he?”

  I turned the kaleidoscope in my hand, peering through the golden mandalas, watching them shift and change until I felt drawn into a blizzard of golden light. The golde
n light was easy on my eyes, not in the least harsh or glaring. My earlier fear slowly ebbed, exhilaration taking its place as I walked, penetrating deeper and deeper into the glittering field, catching sunflakes on my tongue and listening to their bell-like chime as they fell in drifts about my feet.

  Gradually, I became aware of an intrusion into the omnipresent golden light, something in shades of grey and black, a rhomboid shape, nearly square, flat and two-dimensional. I moved toward it as the one anomaly in the golden haze. I’d forgotten to concentrate on a question, forgotten everything but my pleasure in my surroundings. So it was that I was rather surprised to be confronted with a photograph framed in a stolid walnut frame: a head and shoulders shot of a man who was staring into the camera with a stern and solemn expression.

  The man depicted within was young—in his mid-twenties, perhaps—but had about him a sense of stolidity. You didn’t need to look at him for long to know that for all his youthful leanness, he would be stout and stodgy come middle age. He wore his hair in a stiff brush-back. His face was adorned with a thin, somehow military seeming mustache, though he didn’t wear a uniform, but instead what seemed to be a suit with an old-fashioned stiff collar.