Twillyweed

by Mary Anne Kelly

  Jenny Rose was appalled. To humiliate the child in front of her! But the damage was done. She must assert herself with an interference of some kind if they were to respect her place over this housekeeper’s. She stood up very straight and, in a voice she acquired from she knew not where, though she suspected upon hearing it that it came from that exotic taxi driver, she extended her hand and announced, “Give that to me, please.”

  They all turned to her in surprise. Before any of them could object, she’d snatched the crumpled silk scarf from the housekeeper’s hands and thrust it into her raincoat pocket. “This matter will be dealt with at the appropriate time.”

  None of them knew how to take this, but while they made their faces of conspiratorial surprise, Jenny Rose slipped in a wink to the little boy and began the slow walk up the stairs.

  She was almost to the top when, “Not that way, miss,” the butler at last advised. “You’ll be down the stairs, not up.”

  “Oh,” she said and meekly trotted back down. This error had caused her to lose face with them, she realized. But not, she felt sure, with Wendell, who, appraising her with his one good eye, looked at her with interest and concern.

  The heavy woman with the broad New York accent took the child away and returned almost immediately, sprawling one hand down over her hefty belly and pinning her lank hair back with the other. “I’m Patsy Mooney. And this here’s Radiance. Now you’ve met there’s no reason you shouldn’t call each other by your first names,” she said, insinuatingly demoting Jenny Rose to cleaning lady status. But Jenny Rose did not move, and the hefty woman urged her on with a bossy but conciliatory, “Let’s get going, Miss Rose.”

  “It’s Jenny Rose Cashin,” she said clearly as she was led into a huge kitchen with an indigo Aga and a wall of shelves displaying glistening white plates. Lead-paned windows were heavy with rain-drenched ivy and a charming grandmother clock ticked loudly and cheerfully from the corner. A collection of antique white and blue porcelain milk pitchers lined the mantel. It felt like an English country kitchen of long ago. At the plank table the child returned to his seat and nibbled black bread and green salad and cherry pie. Jenny Rose’s mouth began to water. “It’s all so British,” was all she could think to say.

  “Boss likes everything foreign,” Patsy Mooney told her. “Makes him feel important.” She sniffed. Then, realizing she’d said too much, she nicked her head toward the entrance hall and added in a joking way, “But you can’t always locate a nice British girl right away.” She’d meant Radiance, who was from Guadeloupe, but Jenny Rose, misunderstanding her belittling tone, took it to mean that she herself was after all just another Irish immigrant. It dredged up all the trouble she’d left behind, all the gossip and rude remarks of thoughtless villagers. Her eyes filled with tears and she dropped her head so no one should see. But the sharp-eyed Patsy Mooney softened and tactfully turned away, saying, “You gotta be tired, coming all that way. Want me to show you your room?”

  “I am tired,” she admitted.

  “Okay, just leave the big trunk. Mr. Piet’ll bring it along when he’s had his lunch. And I’ll bring you a tray.” She hoisted Jenny Rose’s flight bag onto her shoulder. “Watch out you don’t trip on that cat. That’s Sam—he leaves a nasty smell if he takes a liking to you—right through that door there. That’s it. And it’s a devil to get that smell off. I don’t know why they won’t have him fixed. Keeps off the rodents, Mr. Cupsand says …” But instead of heading for the back stairs as Jenny Rose had expected, they wriggled through a doorway. “When you live near the water, there’s always rats,” she informed Jenny Rose with pleasure. “Down these back stairs and you’ll see your own room at the bottom. There. Ain’t it pretty? He just had it recarpeted. When I came here, it was so slippery. Nothing but the best for the boss. And feel how soft and plushy with your feet!” To demonstrate, Patsy Mooney slipped off her battered clogs and wriggled chubby toes into the pile.

  Jenny Rose’s heart sank. All the grand views from every window and she was to be stuck away in the basement? She looked around. It was all faux-finish pinkish cream, like being in a ladies’ room or a funeral parlor. How would she ever put an easel up on this carpet? Even with a drop cloth. They’d kill her if she spilled a bit of paint. And she always did.

  Patsy Mooney went trilling on, “Catch the TV! Mr. Cupsand got himself a flat screen and put his big one in Mr. Piet’s. When I want to see my shows on a big screen, I’ve got to skedaddle down to Mr. Piet’s quarters and ask myself in. It’s supposed to be for all the help but you know the way it goes; you get to think it’s yours when it’s in your digs.” She touched the ugly television longingly.

  I’d have preferred any small window, Jenny Rose thought but didn’t say. She sank onto the bed. Gone was any thrill of anticipation.

  “’Course I got my own tiny TV, a little feller up on my dresser, but”—she made a face—“reception’s no good. … Fuzzy! And just look at the bed, they give the latest installment.” Patsy Mooney could barely keep bitterness from her voice now as she plumped the firm mattress with a deft mitt. “It’s one of them pillow tops. You got the luck.” She stood still, her bosom heaving with the strain of yearning and the steps. “Say! You’re not disappointed, are you?”

  “Oh, surely not. Really! I expected nothing,” Jenny Rose fibbed.

  Patsy tipped her head suspiciously. “But?”

  “No ‘but.’ Honestly. I just … well … sort of would have loved to have had a window.”

  “You’ll be glad not to have one when the storms rage, I’ll tell you!”

  Jenny Rose smiled tiredly. “I love a storm.”

  “Safe and snug you’ll be down here. No one’ll get you here.”

  “Get me?”

  The woman peered into the gaping suitcase then looked at her doubtfully. “That all you got? Paints and brushes and stuff?”

  Jenny Rose hoisted the other bag up onto the bed and snapped it open. “See? Plenty of duds.”

  Patsy Mooney’s grabby eyes lit up. “Hmm, what’s that nice old glittery thing you got there?” Jenny Rose recoiled. “My music box.” She stashed it away in the top drawer.

  The woman stood there for an indignant moment then took the hint. She wet her lips. “Well. I’ll leave you then.” She shut the door.

  Jenny Rose sank down onto the bed and wearily took it all in. She pulled the white wicker pail toward the bed and laid everything out beside herself, emptying her flight bag and her pockets of boarding pass, gum wrappers, and magazines. The apricot print silk she’d taken from Wendell toppled open like young cups of May leaves. And what was this? A folded paper the size of a tea bag. She kipped it open and onto the coverlet spilled two rocks of blue candy. Goodness, they glowed! They moved like gemstones. She picked them up. But these weren’t candy; they were glass. She peered closer. She was certainly no expert, but these looked like something precious. And they were matching. They looked for moment like bright blue eyes. She looked at them—and they looked at her.

  Outside her door she heard a sound. Someone was there. A chill went up her spine. She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Mooney?” she called. But there was no reply. Maybe just the cat, she told herself. She looked back at the stones. They were so changing and pearly. “Moonstone,” she whispered aloud. That’s what they were. Milky blues and greens that moved as she beheld them, watery with color and light and set into almond-shaped and antique, intricate works of silver.

  There was something radiant about these stones. Had Patsy Mooney been right? How on earth had Wendell got his hands on them? And what do I do now, she pondered, turn the poor kid in?

  The rain outside came down with delicious force, like blue linguini, keeping him safe and hidden in the cluttered room. Who would come here now? Languidly, on hands and knees, he found his way through the blankets to Noola’s personal things. But there wasn’t much to interest him. Just artifacts. He thou
ght of the statue and wondered blankly what had become of the eyes? He simply could not remember. But that was not his fault. There’d been so much going on … His gaze fell upon Noola’s books. She’d had so many books! He picked up the tattered Webster’s Universal Dictionary and thumbed carelessly through it. He should look something up. What? Something relevant to this place. Murder? No, not today. Ah, yes. Something enchanting. Masturbation? Why not? And here it was in black and white. So how vile could it be? Production of the venereal orgasm by friction of the genitals; self-abuse, onanism. Hm. What was that? One-ism? How true. He looked carefully at the words, fondly, almost, because there was beauty in truth, wasn’t there? And he could afford to be sentimental now. It seemed he’d passed that greenish pubescent phase. Now that he’d at last found his way to satisfaction with a mate.

  He decided to look up his new best friend, torture. It was French. How fitting, he mused. “LL tortura, a twisting, torquere, to twist. 1. Extreme pain; anguish of body or mind; pang; agony; torment.” Yes, he agreed, stretching over the bedclothes, how well defined. He read on, aloud, now, savoring the sound of the words. He stopped. Where was that little cat? That was the thing. Once they knew you would hurt them, they were so hard to catch. He returned to his page.

  “2. Severe pain inflicted judicially, either as a punishment for a crime, or for the purpose of extorting a confession from an accused person.” Ha! Even they said it was judicious.

  “3. The act, operation or process of inflicting excruciating physical or mental pain.” He groaned with pleasure. Perhaps, he relented, tossing the heavy book aside, a little self-abasement, once or twice again … in this sentimental hollow, just for old times’ sake … ?

  Claire

  In Queens, I answered my cell phone. No doubt it would be Enoch. He’d chase me down now. But it wasn’t him after all; it was my sister Carmela. “Claire,” she said, “you’ve got to help me.”

  “I can’t help anyone right now, I’m afraid.” I performed what I hoped was a tearful snort to emphasize the seriousness of my distress. “It’s Enoch. You won’t believe what happened.”

  “Is he dead?” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  Because she grunted with what sounded like disappointment, I hesitated and she made use of the moment. “Claire. Please listen.”

  She’d said please, which was a word she never used, and because she was not impressed by my anxiety, I let her go first. But she always went first. I call it the sense of entitlement the firstborn utilize constantly, but it’s more than that. It’s a mechanism of timing they have, the selfish ones. There is no courtesy moment ingrained in them. They just plunge on because feeling has nothing to do with it—unless it’s their own. You find my attitude cold? Wait. Let me explain.

  Back when I’d first started going out with my husband, Johnny, the detective, part of the attraction I’d had for him was that he never really looked at Carmela. His way to put it was a disinterested shrug. Then he’d say, “Too many years doing vice to get caught up with a girl like that.”

  This I’d found utterly charming. Imagine: a man who hardly noticed when my glamorous sister would walk in the room! Perfect. Or so I’d been fool enough to believe.

  Because now, after years of being left out of pertinent information, I knew why.

  When she was fifteen (and I was eleven—years before I’d even thought of dating), Carmela, with her excellent fake ID and all gussied up to look like a bombshell, latched onto a bevy of flight attendants and snuck into the local cop hangout in Kew Gardens. Who should be sitting at the bar but rookie Johnny Benedetto? From what I understand, he took her to the band shell’s parking lot in Forest Park in his convertible. Johnny always had a great car. Over her head and under the influence of three gin and tonics, Carmela surrendered her virginity. She’d been looking for someone to lose her virginity to, she’ll tell you. But she was just a girl, a foolish, miscalculating girl, and she got pregnant. That was not part of her plan. To be fair, Johnny didn’t know this, what with her going off to Ireland to have the baby. He’d chalked the episode up to a one-night stand and hadn’t even seen her again until years later, the night he’d come through the door of my parents’ house to court me. Neither of them had batted an eye. And I’d been definitely watching for signs of interest. Every guy I’d ever brought home went gaga for Carmela. And they’d recognized each other, all right. Carmela wouldn’t forget the man who’d cost her five months of her junior year at school and put her on a trip to rainy Ireland—a trip where she’d given up her daughter before she’d even seen her. As for him, well, no one would be able to forget Carmela’s bewitching face. But in our living room that night the both of them had simultaneously chosen to feign uninterest. Oh, they stayed far apart all right, sidestepping carefully away from each other the entire duration of my marriage. It wasn’t until recently he’d found out he had a child, because this secret had been kept even from me. Or, as my family likes to say, they’d carefully protected me from this knowledge.

  If I’m honest with myself, me finding out about it certainly had a lot to do with our final breakup, at least from my end. That really put the bow on it.

  I stood now on the corner by Holy Child Church. My marriage had fizzled, we know my relationship had fizzled, and if I moved, my cell phone fizzled.

  “Claire!” Carmela spoke with harsh, attention-getting spleen. “Listen carefully. I’m outside Rome.”

  I looked down at the soggy, elegant pumps I’d “borrowed” from her while she’d be gone and was still wearing and had better be careful of. I wiped their soles on the wrought-iron gate.

  “And now,” she went on, “I got a message on my cell that Jenny Rose is in New York.”

  “Jenny Rose? Your daughter?”

  “Stop saying my ‘daughter!’ I don’t even know her!”

  “Well, now’s your chance,” I muttered.

  “Claire, those aunties made me swear on the Bible I’d have nothing to do with her when I let them have her.” Carmela lowered her voice. “You know they wouldn’t have taken her if I was going to waltz back into her life. I had no choice, for God’s sake! Claire. Just listen. She’s left the name of a place. I’ve written it out. Take it down before I lose you. Can’t you just go find her? She’s on Long Island somewhere. It’s some artist colony … used to be a posh resort town on the North Shore. What the hell’s the name of the place? Hold on. Here it is. Sea Cliff.”

  Sea Cliff. The way Carmela said it, with that Ida Lupino English lisp of hers, it made it sound so alluring. The very name made me think of sailing boats and high winds.

  “She says she’s working as an au pair. Look”—she sounded a touch frantic now and I pictured a handsome Italian coming within earshot—“she wants me to meet her out there at noon tomorrow, at a place called Once Upon a Moose. I couldn’t make out her number for all the dead spots in the call and so I can’t call her back. Can you go?”

  “Jesus, Carmela, she’ll be expecting you!”

  “Well, I can’t very well fly home in time, can I?” she shouted, then reasoned, “Look. She met you the time you went to Ireland for that funeral years ago. Can’t you do this one little thing for me so she doesn’t sit there looking at the door and no one comes?”

  I could see the logic in this. Of course I’d met the girl. She was just a kid. Cute. But also very clearly a handful. I was actually glad Carmela showed some signs of feeling for her daughter, but I could already imagine the look of disappointment that would cross her face when she saw me instead of Carmela.

  “You and Enoch could take a ride out,” she suggested, already triumphant.

  So I laughed. What else could I do?

  Jenny Rose

  In the morning, Jenny Rose felt stronger. She’d slept well, despite the stuffy, claustrophobic space. It was new and clean enough, but whoever had designed the basement must have been a stranger to th
e rest of the house. She showered gingerly in the convenient pink washroom allotted to her and while she stood there dressing, her eyes fell upon the twin jewels. She’d best keep them safe. She did have a little green satin sack in the music box in which she kept a tiny pearl she’d bit into while eating clams in Ephesus. She took the music box out of the underwear drawer, opened it, and wound it. When it didn’t stick, it played the haunting “Waltz of the Flowers.” It hurt her just to hear it because the boy who’d broken her heart had given it to her. She should have gotten rid of it. But it was so old-fashioned and expensive looking … And she wasn’t ready—yet. She shut it. She placed the blue stones in the sack carefully, pulled the drawstring shut, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she made her way up to the kitchen. Ascending from her fluorescent-lit cave, she was startled by the sunshine in the windows. It was a relief.

  “Good morning,” she greeted Patsy Mooney, who jumped guiltily and sprang to her feet. She’d been holding the Newsday and doing the Jumble. Nibbling delicately at a slice of cinnamon toast, she set another place for Jenny Rose. She danced around the table, light on her feet, the way some heavy people are. She had dainty hands and feet and unblemished skin, and very little, darting eyes.

  “Coffee?” She held up the pot.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d love a cup of tea. I could make it myself if it’s too much trouble.”

  “Do I look like it’s too much trouble?” she said sharply.

  “Oh! My, no. I’m sorry. Yes. I’d love a cup of tea.”

  “Oh, all right. I’m sorry, too. Start fresh, all right? I’m not much for the morning.”