Twillyweed

by Mary Anne Kelly

  I blotted my nose. No blood. At least there was that. I told him, “I had a bed-and-breakfast in Queens that burned to the ground. But when I bought it, it took forever to get it livable. I did, though. I fixed it up. My children helped me.” I felt his look. He’d be thinking they would join me. “They’re both away at college,” I said.

  “I never had to raise kids,” he murmured. From the way he said it I took it to mean he’d escaped lucky.

  “Really?” was all I could think to say. I watched his profile. It was a fine, manly nose he had. But despite my scrutiny, he gave nothing away but the facts, ma’am, no sign of emotion; still, I sensed a cool retreat. I said, “Look, if it makes a difference that I have children just tell me now because I can go back to Que—”

  But he interrupted me. “You don’t have to apologize for being a woman. Some people have no idea what that takes. Some people think in order to be a lady one has to give up being a woman.” He shot me a reluctant look. “And in the end it does nobody any good.”

  At the time I thought he was talking about his mother. Only later would I find out what he meant. And my thoughts had turned to coffee. I checked my watch. “Look, I’m free until eleven.”

  “Anyone else you want to call?” he asked. “Your ex-husband? Your gay fiancé?”

  I gaped at him. What did he think, it was a joke? My life was a joke?

  “Why don’t we go see it, see how you feel about it,” he suggested. “Figure out if it suits us both.” He gave me the once-over.

  I must have blushed. I knew what I must look like. My two black eyes. No doubt by now I smelled of perspiration. I moved a little farther away from him. He was probably thinking I would go very well indeed with that dilapidated cottage.

  We drove up and down the unfamiliar hills, then approached the cottage from the roadside, which was an experience in itself. It went almost straight up. The steep lane had my stomach in a knot as we reached the top. I held on to the door and was prepared to jump out when the car slipped backward, which I felt sure it would. He glanced at my hand on the door and laughed. And then we were there. We pulled the car onto the drive and came to a halt. He literally jumped over the door like someone in a movie. The cottage could hardly be seen from the road, barricaded by low-hanging branches dripping with white petals. The path was strewn and covered with things grown wild. Braided wisteria husks the size of saplings lounged across the roof. Thinking to show off my house-hunter savvy, I suggested, “If you’re thinking of selling, you might want to clear the front. That way, people can see the cottage.”

  He searched his pockets for the key. “Some people treasure privacy,” he said in a cold tone.

  I shut up and followed his broad back down the overgrown path. What had once been a garden in rows had fallen to plunder. A verdigris sundial sat prettily on a pedestal and I trailed my fingers across its cruddy surface.

  “Sundials have been telling time for three thousand years,” he remarked. “She’s missing her gnomon, that one,” he muttered. Then, “Never got around to repairing it.”

  “Gnomon?” I tasted the word. “The name of your boat, right?”

  “That’s right. Shows the direction.”

  There was a ruckus of birdsong. It stopped suddenly when we came to the door. “Damn key,” he muttered and then dropped it. He winced and grabbed hold of his wrist. I saw that he was wounded somehow, so I knelt and retrieved the key from a drowsy of chamomile between the slates. The birds went back to singing. He swatted his arms. “Cold enough,” he grumbled, embarrassed by his clumsiness.

  “When I hear the birds singing, I don’t mind the cold.” I slipped the key in. “I always figure if they can take it, so can I.”

  “They’re cold-blooded,” he said wryly.

  “Oh, so am I,” I assured him, acting big.

  The door hesitated then swung open easily. It was dark inside, but a huge window across the cottage was filled with the lit-up sea. I’d never seen anything like it. It was utterly magical.

  “Hang on,” he said as he reached for the light switch.

  The house tipped to one side, into the direction of the sea. Along one wall a series of silent clocks hung in disorganized rows like in an old-fangled clock shop, abandoned and neglected. Unlocked cabinets on the land’s side swung open as if on a tilted ship.

  “What the—!”

  “The place looks like it’s been ransacked,” I said.

  He cut straight across the room to a particular standing closet, one of those Bavarian stenciled cupboards, struggled with the painted cabinet door, and seemed relieved when he got it open. Inside was a funny-looking instrument. He picked it up, cradling it.

  “What on earth is it?” I came up behind him.

  “It’s a gilt bronze dial,” he said. “Polyhedral. Do you like it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “It’s from France.” He smiled at the thing admiringly and blew the dust from its pointed top. “About 1660. Luckily, not everyone knows how valuable it is.”

  There was a lot of dust and I sneezed. He lowered the dial gently into a leather bag, zipped it up, went to the kitchen windows and opened them, then went around shutting the opened drawers and cabinets. A fresh cold breeze traveled in, fluttering the worn faded curtains. They were made from lawn. Lawn, I thought. Such old-time stuff. He moved to the other side, to the west-facing windows and opened them too. The fresh air was a relief. “Do you believe this? This is what I’m talking about.” He strode about, outraged, picking up things that had obviously been thrown around. “I leave the cottage unlocked one day and this is what happens!”

  I touched some upside-down herbs in bunches that were tied to a line of ribbon. The flowers crumbled and I sniffed and flinched. “Valerian,” I said, watching the dust of the petals land on a pair of brass jewelers’ magnifiers.

  “My mother,” he explained wearily, “was thought to be something of a witch.”

  “Really?” I looked up, interested.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t organics, it was things; people would bring her old broken watches and she would fix them, presto chango—like magic … things no one else could fix. She could repair any clock until recently. And of course she was more than that.” His arm swept the wall. “She was a first-class collector, as you can see. She’d studied clock making at Eton, you know. That’s where she met my father. They’d both come specifically to study horology.”

  He saw my puzzled expression.

  “Oh. That’s the science of precision timekeeping. She even taught some of the locals. Her eyes were good until the end. She could count the hairs on the back of a fly. Just … she began failing of late …” He cleared his throat, reviving himself. “And a great sailor she was. At one time, anyway.” He caught the look on my face. “Of course if that bit about sorcery changes your mind about staying here, I’ll fully understand.”

  “On the contrary,” I admitted. “It only makes it more compelling. I wear my white light around me anyway.” I asserted, looking around. In such a crammed space, it was hard to make anything out. I tried to disassociate myself from the incidentals and see through to the essence. Basically it was an almost square room with two adjoining walls solid with books and a kitchenette. In the opposite corner was an adequate pantry. The old stove was small but gas. I like gas. A collection of dusty but unchipped English teapots decorated the shelf above. There was a record player, an old one but that at least seemed in good repair. At least there was no dust on it. In a small drawer I discovered dozens of pen tops and no pens. I pushed aside some boxes and found iron pans, six of them, one fitting into the next. They were gritty but could easily be scoured out with sea salt and steel wool. Now some people like to go to the gym and lift weights. Me, I’ll take a couple of iron pans to swing around the kitchen any day.

  Across the room—if you could see past the rubble—was a full-size bed with
a wonderful rosewood headboard, with harps and ten-stringed lyres carved into it. It would look incredible if someone took the trouble to clean and oil it, I thought. Rugs were piled in varying layers, and I lifted one to check the condition of the floor. It was very bad, pitted and uneven; I didn’t think much could be done for that, but as I lifted the rug, the thickness and texture of it struck me. I recognized it right away as Tibetan and of the first caliber: silk and wool. There were lots of them, smaller ones piled on top of one another on one side of the room, evening out the tilt of the floor, some of them precious dark red Afghanis—really old. If they were aired and given a good swatting, they’d reveal their magnificent jewel-like colors, I had no doubt of it. I might have had no knowledge of clocks, but first-class carpets from particular obscure villages make my heart go pit-a-pat. Did I mention I once drove in a van from Munich to India along the Silk Route? Oddly, as I stood there in this cockeyed little house perched on the edge of a cliff I had the same shiver of excited anticipation as when I started out back then. Like I was going to have fun.

  On one edge of the room were some doors, each of their faded frames hand-stenciled. I opened the first. A tiny bathroom appeared with an ancient claw-foot tub. This, at least, was in good condition. The eaves were crooked and rugged as a pirate ship’s cabin. I’d never seen anything like it. I went in and turned on the faucet. A glob of rust sputtered out but soon ran clear. There was an actual porthole for a window. I crumpled some toilet paper and swished around the dust until you could see through. You could sit on the toilet and feel as though you were in a ship of olden days, look out and on a good day see clear across the sound. Wow. I opened the latch and pushed the window out. Down on the otherwise deserted beach below, a young woman walking past was singing. I craned my neck to look. She was walking, crooning to a newborn baby. Too cold for a baby, I thought. But it was a strange and lovely sound. I sat down to listen. There was a little two-tiered white metal table beside me with cat’s paws at the bottom and little women’s heads at the top. Books were wedged onto each shelf. And the toilet seat was padded. This, I thought, laughing to myself, is what I call living.

  I shut the porthole and went back to the main room. Morgan Donovan had his back to me, looking over a stack of papers on a very promising-looking French writing desk. Evidently his mother had a good eye. All the stuff, once attended to, held promise. There was a weird sound and we both looked up at once. I remembered the Italian woman’s words. A ghost? I wouldn’t mind a ghost. Or at least a mystery. But no, of course it was nothing. Old houses on the sea are filled with noises.

  We gazed together at the rows of books askew, crowded in upright and every which way. “She never could get rid of a book she liked,” he said. “She’d loan them to anyone, but she never gave them away.” He confided unnecessarily, “She was a hoarder,” then pulled a little ceramic box from a top shelf and opened it with a worried click of the tongue. “She never kept this up here! Lord knows what else is missing,” he groaned. “Not that anyone would ever know. She had so much crap.” He gave up with a heave and a rueful smile and parked himself on the arm of the bumpy sofa.

  I looked through the old journals, labeled with pictures of clocks and watches, some of them very old, and some with the innards hand drawn and personal remarks scrawled beneath.

  “She certainly seems to have been a good witch.” I tried to smile.

  “A timely witch,” he joked wryly.

  I smiled gently. “How did she die?”

  “Heart,” he answered quickly. Then, “Well. The truth is she took too much of her medication. Overdosed.” He looked at me. “I might as well say it first—there are those who will say it was intentional.” I noticed his hands tighten on the book he held. “But”—he hesitated—“she never would have; that was so against her religion. And she was staunch in her beliefs. If I’d been here, of course—” He stopped himself. “She got confused sometimes, you see. Forgot.” He sighed. “Forgot everything. Spent the last months in a terrible muddle. Drove everyone crazy.”

  You know me. My ears perked up. She wouldn’t be the first troublesome elderly person to be disposed of medicinally. Easily enough done. But no, I thought of my own parents. If they didn’t stick to their little categorized cubes of pills marked with the days of the week they might overdose as well. Morgan Donovan stayed put where he was. I don’t think he could move. He just stood there, every once in a while emitting a huge sigh. I remembered that such sighs accompany grief. I turned away, trying to busy myself so as not to embarrass him, but I realized he’d simply forgotten me. There was a part of the wall not obscured by clocks and I guessed it was a door. A wood knot halfway up turned into a doorknob, and I attempted to open it. It stuck but gave way after a hearty yank, opening onto a horrible green-moldy shower curtain. I was already dirty and swished it aside. There was nothing behind it, just a wall. And then I thought, That’s not right, from outside the cottage must reach the side porch. There had to be a reason for the door. I gave the wall a shove and, sure enough, it moved, opening onto—goodness! What was it, a tiny notions room? There was a sink and a ceiling lamp and then the entire addition was given over to tiny wooden porticos, square drawers, really, from floor to ceiling, and each one had a button, an old-fashioned button, sewn onto a loop to pull on. I pulled one of the buttons and the drawer slid out to reveal a handful of the same buttons inside. But they were wonderful! I opened another, this one green and glittery, making me think of my mother’s old coat she still kept from when she was a girl. Sure enough, inside was the rest of the set. I rolled it back into its cubby and went for a red Schaffhausen—a sort of Heidi-in-her-dirndl button. There they were, eleven of them. And next to that was a brass Knopf of edelweiss. There must have been thousands of buttons. She even had them sorted by country! “Mr. Donovan!” I called. “Come look at this.”

  He put down the paper he was reading. “Yes”—he strode across the room—“I know all about them. That used to be a mudroom. Sink still works, I think.”

  “They’re a trip!”

  A pained, half-humorous, half-wincing expression took him and he turned away. “She used to let me play with them when I was little,” he murmured. “Took them away, though, when I tried shooting them from my cannons.” He scratched his head, dazed by the childhood memory. Perhaps stirred by these childhood memories, he became suddenly the host, venturing back to graciousness and hospitality. “Oh, and,” he added with sudden charm, “be so kind and call me Morgan. The only one calls me Mr. Donovan is Patsy Mooney up at the big house.”

  Embarrassed by this sudden warmth, I turned away and dislodged two fancy buttons left on the top of the cabinet. They dropped to the floor and I picked them up, saying, “They seem to be all sorted and labeled, except for some in a basket and these two.” I held them up to the light. “But aren’t they lovely? Like little jewels!” We watched them glimmer in the half-light.

  “Keep them,” he said gruffly. “… if you like them.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “Claire,”—he raised his eyebrows dismissively—“they’re only buttons.”

  I felt the blood in my cheeks. He’d not yet said my name. Defensively, I said, “Yes, but someone loved them once.” I realized even as I said it I’d passed the mark. That’s the trouble with me. I give too much too soon. “I’ll make them into earrings,” I stammered. “Thanks.”

  He turned away and I, chagrined now, returned to my assessment. But I knew now that he was not entirely mean. I’d seen the crack in that cold shoulder. And I liked it—liked him—that he wouldn’t sell his mother out, belittling her by saying she was crazy. She’d probably been an old dear, just too feeble to keep up. I focused on the buttons in my cupped hands. “It’s a wonderful collection, though. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  “Yes. My inheritance. Buttons by the dozens …” He flipped the papers in his hand like a deck of cards and sneezed from
the dust. “… and clocks after clocks …”

  The scornful way he said it. I turned and busied myself reading the titles of all those books. There were two rows of clock repairman’s guides and a group of herbal and gardening books. There was even a guide called Collecting Buttons. I would investigate them later, alphabetizing and categorizing, I thought, my mind already taking on the job at hand. I spied a pen, an expensive, glistening affair with a golden nib. It lay on top of a pile of decaying antique maps and somehow did not go with the room, too new and shiny to belong here. I imagined someone had left it behind. An intruder, I thought, my heart beating quicker. Shy, I didn’t touch it. I didn’t mention it either. I still don’t know why.

  Morgan held his arms up in the air and cleared his throat. “Well, as you can see, it’s not a palatial dwelling.”

  I smiled. “No. Not palatial. But so imaginative!”

  “So.” He watched my face. “Too big a job you’ll be thinking? They’re not all repair books and research,” he assured me. “Do you care for novels?”

  My eye scanned the other shelves of books. There were lighthearted novels and mysteries by the dozens, most of them outdated and romantic. I was surprised to see they were, almost every one of them, my own cup of tea. I ran my finger over the alphabetized names: Brookner, Drabble, Du Maurier, P. D. James, Lively, Mansfield, Maugham, O’Brien, poetry, V. S. Prichett, Jean Rhys, Rohmer, Shaw, Muriel Spark, Steinbeck. Oh, yes. I could stay here. Morgan Donovan and I regarded each other with a strange sort of satisfaction.

  With the relinquishment of his crankiness the entire atmosphere had changed, lightened. And suddenly I knew what it was about his house that reminded me in a funny way of the house I’d lost. It needed me. It was old and decrepit, and without me it would never regain its quaint charm. It would be torn down or renovated into something else. What lay beneath the clutter, the dear antique pieces this woman had spent a lifetime accumulating, would be sold at a tag sale, the clock journals cut up for quaint picture frames and then someone else would come along and turn the place into a modern granite beach house surrounded by pavers. “Oh, I love it so,” I cried out emotionally. “I’d love to stay here!”