Twillyweed

by Mary Anne Kelly

  Jenny Rose lurched toward Patsy and grasped both her hands in her own. “Oh, please!” she implored. “Let me move into your turret and you can have my cellar! I can’t bear that dry, awful space without a decent window! And you said that you love it! Oh, please!”

  “But you got that nice bright fluorescent light,” Patsy reasoned doubtfully, cringing from the contact, dusting her off. “And my room is cold these nights. It’s drafty and noisy in a storm!”

  “I told you I love a storm and I can’t bear fluorescence and central heating from every direction! It makes my nose stuff up. I really mean it. A drafty turret is everything I could dream of. So romantic! I could wear my Greek cardigan and set up my easel and—”

  Patsy leaned suspiciously forward. “Just be straight with me. There’s nothing hidden in there with that cable box, is there?”

  “What do you mean, hidden?”

  “Like dirty movies or nothing …”

  “No. Of course not. I’d say so if there was. The truth is, I wouldn’t know, would I?” She thought guiltily of the blue gems and prayed they wouldn’t show in her eyes.

  Patsy flattened her mouth and looked over her shoulder worriedly. “All right, all right. If you really mean it. It’s just that Mr. Cupsand had that apartment smarted up special for the au pair, he said, see? So I don’t know if he’ll like the idea. …”

  “Then we won’t have to tell him! I won’t mention it if you won’t. Okay? If they find out, we’ll just say we decided to switch! Once we’ve moved our stuff they’re not likely to do anything about it.” She looked beseechingly into Patsy Mooney’s darty little eyes.

  Already Patsy could see herself propped with her feet up on that comfy couch watching the Yankees. “All right,” she agreed. “But not a word to no one!”

  Excitedly, their shoulders scrunched up to their ears in happy anticipation, they went to rearrange their stuff.

  Radiance, theoretically at Twillyweed to recover, had returned unannounced and was staying in her father’s rooms. She was on her sweet way to the porch to light her joint when she saw Jenny Rose and Patsy Mooney cavorting up the grand staircase. She stood now quietly in the foyer, unobserved, enjoying their stealth. They were up to something, those two. There was no one on the main floor now but her. She threw a lemon in the air and caught it. Threw it, caught it. When she slipped through to the dining room, she hesitated. Someone had been looking for something because they’d left the top drawer in the ladies’ writing desk ajar. A piece of something was caught there behind it on its way to the floor. Without turning on the light, she felt her way over and grasped it, a sheet of old-fashioned letter paper, a soft shade of pink and edged with dahlias.

  Claire

  Armed with news, I telephoned my son and daughter. They were very cavalier about my state of affairs, though both of them were pleased I had somewhere to live. For them, Grandma and Grandpa’s house could always serve as home base. And how close was I to the water? “On the water? No shit!” They forgot their manners and gasped. They liked that, had visions of themselves arriving with carloads of drunken friends on weekends when I wasn’t here. And, to be fair, I don’t think they’d been entirely sold on the idea of Enoch. Well, they both love their dad. I was very nervous calling my mother, however. I might be a mother myself, but you have to know mine to understand. You see, because she thinks she’s the boss of the world, the whole world thinks so, too. I was nervous out of habit, I guess. My father picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me, Claire.”

  “Who is it, Stan?” I could hear my mother over Bill O’Reilly in the background.

  “Some lady,” Dad said.

  “Hello?” my mother said in her tart whatever yer selling we’ll not be buyin’ voice.

  “Mom. It’s me, Claire.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I knew it was Claire all along.” My father’s voice jollying in the background.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to let you know I’m all right.”

  “Made up with Enoch, have you?”

  “No. I’m still out in Sea Cliff. I—”

  “Sea Cliff! Are you with Jenny Rose?”

  “Yes, actually. You see I—”

  Excitedly, she rushed on, “Darlene Lassiter called from the rectory out there. Tell her I’ve bought seven copies of the Post! I’ll have them polyurethaned and send them off to Skibbereen day after tomorrow! Now, you’d better bring Jenny Rose here on Sunday. I’ll not have them speaking ill of me back home.”

  Back home to my mother will always be Skibbereen in County Cork. No matter she’s lived here fifty years. “All right, I’ll ask her.”

  “No, you’ll tell her. I’ll make me famous meatloaf.”

  “Okay, Mom.” I hung up and thought I must go and buy some jeans and sneakers and sweatshirts. And—I sat down to make a list—some lovely new sheets. Anything at all would be better than going back to sleeping with Lefty on that couch.

  Jenny Rose

  Jenny Rose, too, had a phone call to make. She waited until everyone had gone their separate ways and then she called.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lassiter?”

  “Hello, yes? This is Darlene Lassiter.”

  “Hi, it’s Jenny Rose Cashin, Mrs. Lassiter. Brigid and Deirdre’s girl. I’m here at Twillyweed.”

  “Oh, are you, now? Just a minute, let me sit down. I’ve just come back from sorting out old Father Schmidt and I’m just drying my hands. There. Are you settled in?” Before waiting for a reply she blurted, “We heard all about you rescuing the Piet girl!”

  “Oh, that was nothing.” Jenny Rose swayed modestly.

  “That’s not what Teddy Cupsand said. Painted you up as a real hero, he did. And your picture in the paper. What will they think of that back home!”

  “No doubt they’ll brush it off as just good luck as I did,” Jenny Rose said, imagining, anyway, the lot of them leaning over the paper on the bar at the White Tree.

  “Well, you’ve done us proud. Now tell me, lass, have you met the little boy?”

  “I have. He’s darling.”

  “Not too much trouble? Because there was talk he’s a bit backward.”

  “No! He’s bright as a shiny new penny. He’s just shy.” And hurt, she thought but didn’t say.

  “That’s fine, then.”

  “I wanted—The reason I’m calling is to say thank you for hooking me up with this job—I’m sorry I haven’t come by in person, it’s all been a mad dash—and to bring you greetings from home.”

  “They’re all well?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. So, I wanted to say thanks and all …”

  “That’s a good lass. I remember you when you were just a wee thing. Hot tempered! Tempest in a teapot, that’s what we used to call you, dashing all about the cricket field. Will you come and pay me a visit?”

  “Soon as I have a few days off. They’re talking about a race and I might be able to sail …”

  “Oh, you’ll love that. All sorts of nonsense these rich folk get into. And the fireworks at the end! If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you there.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Oh, and be careful of that Mr. Cupsand. He’s got an eye for the ladies, that one.”

  “I will. Thanks again.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Yes, good-bye.”

  Mrs. Lassiter sat by the phone for a minute more, thinking.

  Then Father Schmidt ambled in. “Are you done?”

  “What is it now?”

  “Come on, Darlene. I’ve been a good boy and I’ve eaten all my peas. Show them to me, come on.”

  “No. Go away with you.”

  His eyes glowed like coals. “Just this once more, Darlene. Let me see them.” He wriggled excitedly into the oak chair.

  “Oh,
for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, pleased, unbuttoning her blouse.

  Claire

  Late at night I heard some noise out in front of the cottage and went to investigate. Mrs. Dellaverna was standing there struggling with the wisteria carcass. She had it lifted over her head. “Don’t just stand there!” she berated me. “Help!”

  I ran to her. “It’s no use!” I cried. “The roots are up. It’s no good. It’s dead!”

  “Porca miseria!” she snarled. “Get down on the ground and cover the roots! What’s the matter with you? Hurry!”

  I did as I was told. I dragged and dumped enough dirt over to cover the naked roots and then helped the old woman hold up the trunk. Believe me, she was strong as an ox! I trembled under the clumsy weight, but she stood there, feet planted, until I got around and lugged the python of a vine up the steps and thrust its thick hulk back onto the roof, trying best I could not to upset the already wilted foliage. Together we wedged it, bypassing the drainpipe, and laid the old torso back home on the generous swoop of the roof. “It’s best we do it in the moonlight, so it don’t get a shock,” she said. She had a crude wooden hacker with an iron hatchet and watched while I dug up more soil with it and tidied the roots over, absorbed in my task. Doubtful, I stood back to look at it, in place but clearly wilted. “I can’t believe we did it!” I marveled, but I couldn’t see where she’d gone. I caught her unawares beneath the seaside of the house, measures of broken twine in her hands, an expression of panic gripping her face. “What’s the matter?” I said.

  “Nothing,” she frowned, squinting worriedly out at the sea. “Wet the dirt down good now with the hose.”

  When I finally got to bed, I tossed and turned on the lumpy sofa, far too wired to sleep. There was unease about, some discomfort I couldn’t put my finger on. The wind hurled across the bay. It was now that I really missed my dog, Jake. A dog is a comfort. I lay there reliving Enoch’s cruel betrayal, gnawing on it, unable to get past the shock of it. And who knew what new wanton carousal my Jake was witness to at this very minute?

  Giving up, I turned on the bright overhead light and pulled a couple of clocks down from the wall. None of them appeared to be broken, just neglected. They were each of them the antique, wind-up type and it was kind of fun seeing them spring back to life. I got up and stretched and walked around and decided I might as well take a stroll into town. How thrilled Jake would have been by an unscheduled late-night walk, I thought. I knew he was better off where he was, but still I resented not having him. Funny how a dog steals into your heart.

  On my way into the village I passed the local bar, Gallagher’s. It was so good to hear people singing like that and such a nice song, an old song, “Charming Billy.” I glanced in the window and who did I see but Morgan Donovan, drunk as a post, and Paige, sitting rigidly beside him on the bench. There she was in her pale-green Chanel suit and brooch. She remained at all times the lady, didn’t she? He was waving his beer and raucously singing “She’s a young thing, and cannot leave her mother!” with the rest of them. I hurried on by, deflated, and found another place, the Tupelo Honey, but it was mobbed. Then I saw Oliver, Teddy, and Mr. Piet at the bar and went in.

  Oliver, delighted to see me, bought me some drinks and I bought him a couple in return. He introduced me around. “Teddy,” I said after an hour or so, “the wind must have knocked Noola’s wisteria vine off the house. I’ve managed to get it back up. I think it just might live. Isn’t that good?” Teddy sucked his chin into his neck. “Morgan will be so glad,” he said. A big fellow with a kind face overheard us. He said, “Morgan Donovan? Was over there in Bosnia. Never the same after that. Used to be a lot of fun, Morgan.” My ears perked up. Then Teddy said to him, “Well, that’s it. He’s in a tossup. Mother’s a mick and his father’s a Scot. No wonder he’s mixed up with us Cupsands. He’s mixed up completely!” He pulled on his drink and held my eyes, finding himself funny. “That’s the thing with the immigrants,” he went on, “first they take your job and they take your land and the next thing you know they take your woman. They’re all on the take.”

  Mr. Piet didn’t move or flicker an eye. I was a little surprised at Teddy.

  Oliver put his scotch glass hard on the counter. “I wouldn’t go callin’ Morgan Donovan on the take when I was around, Teddy. Not if I was you. Now Morgan, twice he sailed in a race around the world, and he would have won that second time, too, if that whale hadn’t walked into him and Glinty. That was a funny story.”

  “Oh, not now, Oliver!” Teddy rolled side to side.

  “And don’t forget, he was I4 Implementation force over in Bosnia. Did them exhumations for mass graves. Took it in the hand from a semiautomatic.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Teddy skated this road familiarly. “But all the ex-army jocks are nuts if they were there in the thick of it. And you saw what happens in the jails. They’re all like that. Like the cops. Wall of blue.” He was drunk, too.

  Mr. Piet turned him about on his bar stool and looked him dead in the eye. “You’re not saying Morgan’s dishonest, are you? How would you like it if I said all teachers are pedophiles? Huh?”

  “Well, they’re not. …”

  “Oh, really? I saw it in the papers what they’re up to. I can show you.”

  “C’mon, Piet”—he held him on the sleeve—“don’t be so serious. And don’t pretend you haven’t heard the scuttlebutt.” He glanced right and left. “Plenty of folks think Morgan had something to do with pushing Noola over the edge. I’m not saying it was so wrong … I’m just saying.”

  “I’m not joking with you. One more word about Morgan’s integrity and I’ll—”

  “Okay, okay. Sheesh.”

  “And get your hand off my arm.”

  We’d all been drinking like we were going to the chair, so anything could happen. Oliver gave me a nod and we stood carefully. He paid the bill, and he and I stalked off arm in arm. There must have been a thousand stars as we rolled unsteadily up the hill. I hadn’t left a light on, and the cottage through the brambles was otherworldly and unwelcoming. “Oliver,” I said nervously, “there isn’t any truth to those rumors about Morgan Donovan, right?”

  “Phhh.” Oliver wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat meaningfully onto the gravel. But he didn’t say no, either. We parted at the cottage path and anyone could hear him singing drunkenly at the top of his voice as he staggered back to Twillyweed.

  The cottage was closed and overheated, and I threw open the sea window. I tried to sleep but sleep wouldn’t come. I opened a bottle of Bordeaux and, with the aid of the French, passed out. Then, very late, I sat up in bed, wide awake. In the twisted, whirly place where my dreams and the fog came together, I thought I saw a hunched-up figure pass by the window. A ghost, I thought, but I didn’t screech. I covered my head. Common sense got me eventually and I edged away the plaid blanket to see a small light in the east. And something else. I remembered Morgan’s remark about some people thinking in order to be a lady one has to give up being a woman. I lay back down and snuggled into my pillow, absurdly reassured, and slept.

  Chapter Four

  Claire

  Those days passed—like spring days should, I suppose—with rain. It befitted my mood and the lonesomeness of the job at hand. It was what I needed, though. And if it wasn't raining when I walked out of the cottage, there would be Mrs. Dellaverna watering down the reconstructed wisteria vine with her hose just to make sure it stayed soaked. Its tendrils remained dilapidated, but if you walked up to it and held the core, you could somehow tell it was alive. Cupping its stalk, I almost sensed its pulse. A small, manipulated miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.

  All the cleaning people I could find wouldn’t be available for a while so, rolling up my sleeves, I began to do it myself. I worked like mad on the inside of that cottage, so occupied with discarding and redistributing I hardly had time to think of Enoch. And all around
it was beautiful. At the start, the pale pinks of crabapple and cherry had decorated the hills; now tight buds of creamy dogwood were loosening. Tender, impertinent mushrooms sprang up all over. About midday I’d always treat myself to a break. Sometimes I’d prepare a bowl of oatmeal and milled flax on the tiny stove, lopping in the five almonds allotted by Edgar Cayce, some banana and canned black cherries, slathered it with half-and-half, sprinkled it with cinnamon. I’d take one of Noola’s well-worn novels and climb onto the huge, lumpy easy chair that must have been her favorite for it faced the window like someone else’s would the TV. I could knot myself into Noola’s chair and stare out at the sea any time I chose, I realized. As the rainy weeks passed, I began to appreciate my own company and didn’t particularly want someone around, confusing my steady, slow progress. I’d even managed to patch the leaky roof, climbing up with Mrs. Dellaverna as my ladder holder and watch. Granted, it was makeshift, stuffing heavy cardboard and unmatched socks into the gaps, but it stopped the drips and no one was the wiser. Little by little I was making headway, and I didn’t want some thoughtless girl throwing out the mate of an under-the-chair mukluk until I’d found the other. And find it I did, locked between the headboard and the fitted sheet. I decided to keep them for myself. I threw them into the warm wash twice, way overdoing the fabric softener, then stuffed them with paper towels and let them dry slowly, away from any direct heat. They had hand-sewn buffalo leather soles so you had to be careful. It took a few days for them to relax but—I looked down at my feet, admiring them—now they were as soft and cuddly as buntings. The weather stormed and blew, but that was all right with me and I had the windows open almost all the time. It wasn’t cold anymore, or if it was, I didn’t feel it much because I was working so hard. It was only my hands, red as lobsters from all the cleaning stuff. I took one corner at a time. After a while, I managed to categorize and pile up boxes of antiques for Morgan to come and get, and I had seventeen black bags to be picked up by the St. Mary’s by the Sea truck on Thursday. The floor was swept of clutter and scrubbed by yours truly with good old-fashioned soap and water.