by Nicole Young
On the highway below, a car slowed and turned down the two-track toward my house. I squinted. A tan four-door I didn’t recognize. I hated to miss a visitor. I folded my umbrella and hooked the loop around my wrist. I took the shortcut down the face of the bluff, picking my way from tree trunk to sapling. The umbrella pulled at my arm like a red kite in a brisk wind. I made it to the bottom of the incline safely this time and crossed the highway to my drive. I splashed at top speed toward the cottage. After a ways, I slowed to catch my breath. The tan car pulled toward me on its way back to the highway.
I waved. The car stopped. The driver’s window rolled down.
I smiled. “Hi, Joel. What’s up?”
My cleaner-cut cousin gave a big sigh and set one arm on the car door.
“Get in. Olivia’s asking for you.”
I patted my hair, drenched with rain. “What’s the rush? How about if I finish my walk, shower up, and then head down to your place?”
His fingers tapped. “It can’t wait. She wants you now.”
I stepped back and crossed my arms. “Why the sudden change of heart? Not so long ago I was chopped liver.”
He looked at me with arched eyebrows. “Get in, Tish. She’s dying.”
13
“Olivia’s dying?” I sloshed around to the passenger side and jumped in. I slammed the door and fastened my seat belt. Joel moved in slow motion to put the car in gear.
“Well, hurry up. She could pass at any moment,” I urged. I didn’t want to miss out on my last opportunity to meet my great-grandmother.
“So she says,” Joel replied.
The car pulled forward at a snail’s pace.
“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.” I pushed my foot against the floorboard, hoping the car would accelerate in response.
“Nope.” Joel stopped at the top of the drive, sending a lengthy gaze in either direction before pulling onto the highway. “She’s been dying for the past twenty years.” He glanced at me with cynical eyes. “Leverage, you know.”
My lips formed a silent “oh.” I nodded and looked out the window. I knew firsthand how weighty the threat of death could be to the living. My grandma Amble had used her illness to guilt me into dropping out of college to take care of her in her last days, which had stretched out for more than two years. Recently, I’d given thought to what I should have done instead of playing into her death drama. I should have continued to live. I should have stayed at college and finished my degree. Hospice and visiting nurses would have been more than sufficient to provide for my grandmother’s physical needs. I would have been home with her on weekends and breaks anyhow.
I sighed. That reasonable scenario had seemed so selfish at the time. But Gram and I would have enjoyed each other so much more without the martyrdom that brought anger, resentment, and eventually murder into my heart.
Joel kept below the speed limit as he drove toward Port Silvan.
“So remind me again why you live with Olivia?” I said.
He gave me a glare that told me my question didn’t merit an answer.
“I’m not trying to be nosy,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s healthy for a guy your age to be living with his great-uncle and great-grandmother.” The sign for the cider mill passed by on my right. “I mean, don’t you plan on dating or getting married and having a family? What kind of woman is going to want to move in with Papa B and Olivia?”
He looked at me tight-lipped, then glanced back at the road. “I suppose I should just lace their morning coffee with cyanide and be done with them?” He shook his head. “Oh, wait. I don’t feel like going to prison for three years.”
I swallowed and stared ahead. “Point made,” I whispered.
He tipped his head at me. “Listen. I don’t want to fight with you. I live at the lake house because I choose to. Uncle Bernard and Grandma Olivia are both good people and I like helping them out. I like hearing stories about the old days. And to me, it’s better than living alone. But”—he made sure he caught my eye before continuing—“they’re not perfect. Watch what you say in front of Olivia. She’s not a big believer in confidentiality. If you cough in front of her, Port Silvan is going to hear that you’ve got pneumonia.”
I waved a hand. “You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve been warned. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Joel navigated the curve out of town. A few minutes later we pulled into the drive at the lake house. Joel parked in the detached garage, pushing a button to shut the garage door behind us. The noisy clanking meant I didn’t have to say anything as we got out of the vehicle. I followed him outside and across the cobblestone walk.
We came in the house through a side door that led into an entry room. From the landing where we stood, steps forked up to the kitchen or down to the basement. Behind us hung at least twenty coats and jackets in denim, canvas, camouflage, nylon, and flannel. Boots and shoes were scattered across the floor near the back wall. Paint that had once been bright white was covered with black scuff marks.
Joel took my coat and slung it over an open hook. I removed my swampers and lined them near the wall. My socks made contact with a pool of water. I cringed.
“You want a cup of coffee to take in there with you?” he asked.
I’d worked up a dose of perspiration on my walk and now that my slicker was off and my socks were wet, I couldn’t stop shivering. “Coffee sounds good.” I rubbed my arms to chase away the chill. I could already feel the pneumonia setting in.
“You want a fresh sweatshirt or something?” Joel asked.
I nodded. “Slippers, too, if you have some.”
“Come on,” he said. “You can change upstairs.” He motioned for me to follow him.
The front steps made a steep run to the second floor. My socks slid on the smooth cherry treads. At the top, I paused to view Silvan Bay. Most of the snow had melted from the shore, with only an occasional patch still lingering in shaded areas. A lone ice-fishing shanty, patched together with a hodge-podge of boards and old siding, sat half submerged in the retreating ice, perhaps destined to bob as a menace to boaters until sinking at last to the bottom of the bay.
“Here,” Joel said from a door at the end of a long hallway. “After you change, come back downstairs and I’ll bring you to Olivia.” He handed me the warm garments I’d requested and walked off.
I entered the bedroom. The air was cold, as if the room had been shut off from the rest of the house. A pink comforter with lace edging covered a white wrought-iron bedstead. Candles in colorful holders lined the window ledge. A wreath of dried wildflowers hung above the round mirror of the ’50s-style dresser. I wondered how the room had been allowed to exist in the mostly male household.
A photo on the wall showed a smiling Leave It to Beaver family of three. I took a closer look. I recognized a young-twenties Puppa sans moustache and dressed in a coat and tie. The woman next to him would be my deceased grandmother. She was beautiful, with dark hair and happy, gleaming eyes. That made the toddler in the picture my father. He looked about three years old when the photo was taken. An abundance of curls topped his head. Baby teeth peeked out from his wide-mouthed smile.
I ran a finger across the glass. Surely the little family had held such promise. Who could have known the tragedy in store for their lives?
I turned my back on the past and put on the thick sweatshirt. I stepped into the slippers, closed the bedroom door behind me, and made my way downstairs.
“Joel?” I called when I got to the entry hall.
“This way.”
His voice came from a door that hung open underneath the steps. I hadn’t even seen it my first time through.
I entered what must have been at one time the nursery. Small and square, the room was painted a pale blue that had darkened unevenly over the years. From the light fixture in the center hung a child’s mobile, with a circle of giraffes that remained forever just out of reach of the ja
ws of a smiling lion. A door in the far corner of the room probably connected to the master bedroom.
A hospital bed sat against one wall. Joel’s shoulders blocked the view of the woman under the covers. Her feet moved beneath the white spread.
“Joel. Move so I can see Patricia.” The voice was sharp and strong. An underlying waver revealed the speaker’s advanced age.
My cousin stepped aside with a flourish of his arm, as if to say, “She’s all yours.”
I smiled and moved to the edge of the bed. The lovely Olivia wore carefully coifed and silvered hair. Her lined face was still pert and attractive for a woman her age. A touch of rouge brightened her cheeks.
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you.” I held out a hand in greeting. Though her bones looked as delicate as a bird’s, she nearly crushed my fingers with her feisty grip.
“You look just like your mother.” Olivia shook her head as if disappointed.
“Thank you,” I said anyway. “I’ve seen pictures of my mother and she was very beautiful.”
“Just be careful you don’t end up like her,” Grandma Olivia said.
I broadened my smile. “I have no plans to kill myself, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. I’m glad she’s dead after killing my boy.”
I pulled my hand out of her grasp. “I don’t know the whole story. I’m sure if she killed Uncle Sid, it was an accident.”
“She had no business going to the cops. He was just doing what he had to do to get by. He wasn’t hurting anybody.”
I scrunched my forehead. “I don’t understand. She killed him by calling the cops?”
“It was none of her business. People got scared that Sid might talk. And they started that fire.” Olivia struggled to sit up. “Some things are better left alone.”
Joel pushed me aside to get to our great-grandmother. He laid his hands on her shoulders and eased her back down on the bed. “Calm down, Olivia. No sense getting worked up over old news.”
Olivia pulled in a few deep breaths and closed her eyes. “Sit with me awhile, Patricia.”
I looked at Joel. He shrugged and left the room. I sat in a wooden upright chair and scooted it close to the edge of the bed. The old gal held my fingers. Within ten minutes she had fallen asleep.
I looked at her face, now lying in peaceful slumber. The lines in her forehead came together in the center like an arrow, evidence of a lifetime of worry. The skin around her mouth lay in a deep frown, betraying disappointment and bitterness. How sad that she’d held on to all her griefs. I realized how fortunate I was to have been able to let go of so many of my own.
The door squeaked open behind me. My grandfather came into the room.
“Hello, Patricia,” he whispered.
“Hi, Puppa.” I kept my voice low.
He lifted a matching chair and set it next to mine. “I see Olivia broke down and asked you over.”
I looked at him funny. “Joel drove to my house and picked me up. She told him she was dying and had to see me right away.”
My grandfather smiled and looked at his mother’s quiet form. “Maybe. She probably just feels foolish for shunning you earlier. What better way to save face?”
“I guess so.” I stared at Olivia’s fingers intertwined with mine. Even in sleep she hadn’t relaxed her grip.
I looked at my grandfather, realizing we were alone for the first time. I remembered my promise to Missy Belmont. “Uh, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sure. What is it?”
I struggled for the right words. “A friend of mine is hoping you’ll help her out.”
He furrowed his forehead. “What do you mean?”
I bit my lip. “Back in March, Melissa Belmont asked me to tell you that her husband was dealing drugs and beating her. She said you’d know what to do to help her out.”
He held a finger to his mouth to quiet me. He stood and pointed to the far door. I wriggled my hand from Olivia’s hold and tiptoed after my grandfather.
We entered a large master bedroom that apparently served as a study as well. A huge desk sat against the windows overlooking the front yard. Papers littered the surface. Rows of filing cabinets filled a whole corner. A double bed was scrunched against a wall, as if an afterthought.
“Wow. You’re a little behind with your filing.” I smiled as I made the comment.
Puppa ignored me and sat down at the desk, with pen perched over a scratchpad. “So when exactly did Missy ask you to talk to me?”
14
I put a hand to my forehead, trying to remember the events surrounding Missy Belmont’s plea for help. “I met her the Sunday after I moved up here. The next Tuesday we met at the library in Manistique, and she told me everything.”
Puppa glanced up at a twelve-month wall calendar. He wrote on his paper.
“And what exactly did she say to you?” he asked.
I relayed the details the best I could. “Then I told her she should take the kids and go to a shelter.”
My grandfather nodded. “That works for most people, but Missy knows she’s in a little deeper than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a drug network involved. It’s not just Drake she’s got to break away from. As with a lot of the wives and girlfriends, Missy has seen and heard too much. If she runs, she could be dead.”
I sucked in a breath. “So what can you do?”
Puppa shrugged. “Make a few phone calls. Call in a few favors. We’ll see.”
“But why would Missy think you could help her?”
“I used to be in law enforcement. Maybe she thinks I still have an inside track.”
“Do you?”
“We’ll see.” He scribbled a few more notes on his pad. “Or, maybe there’s something else going on altogether.” He paused, pencil in midair as he concentrated. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Go back in there and check on Olivia.”
I hesitated at the door. Puppa strode to a file cabinet and started flipping through folders.
“So, you’re like a retired cop?” I asked him.
“No, I’m like a fired cop.” He turned his back to me.
I gulped and nodded and walked back into Olivia’s room.
She was awake.
“How are you feeling?” I went to the bed and touched her hand.
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “Tell Joelly I’m hungry.”
“Sure.”
I found him in the kitchen, putting supper together.
“Mmm. Smells good,” I said.
He glanced up from his place at the stove where he was mixing something in a fry pan. “Hey, little cousin.”
“Hey, yourself.” I snuck a peek in the skillet. “Stir-fry. Looks yummy.”
“I take it Olivia’s not dead?” he asked.
“Nope. She’ll be kicking for a long time yet. In fact, she’s hungry.”
His spatula slowed. “Uh-oh. What’d you tell her? She only gets hungry when she’s gearing up for the gossip circuit.”
“You heard everything. She insulted my mother and I thanked her for it. She fell asleep right after you left.” Fat scraps and veggie ends were scattered across the top of the island. I scooped up a handful and put it in the trash. “So. Papa B was a police officer?”
Joel looked up from the stove. “State cop. How’d you know?”
I shrugged. “He told me. Said he was fired. What happened with that?”
His spoon halted mid-stir. “I’m surprised he said something to you. He never talks about it.”
I grabbed a dishcloth and wiped down the island. “So? What’s the scoop?”
Joel shook his head and went back to stirring. “I was pretty young at the time. Four or five years old, I guess.” He tapped the spoon on the edge of the pan. “In fact, it was right around the time Lizard died.”
“Lizard?”
Joel’s cheeks blushed red. “Elizabeth. Beth. Your mom. That’s what me and Gerard called her. She was a lot of fun.�
�
My forehead bunched. I could see two freckle-faced boys jumping out in ambush along some forest path.
“Nice try, boys,” I heard my mother say. “But I saw Joelly’s white socks from a mile away.”
“No fair,” the boys whined as they ran ahead to find a better hiding place.
I looked at my cousin, all grown up. “You called my mom Lizard and me Toilet Tissue.”
Joel looked sheepish. “You see why Uncle Bernard will only let us call you Patricia these days?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes. Remind me to thank him.”
Gerard showed up in time for supper and the four of us shared a pleasant meal. Grandma Olivia had her tray in the bedroom again. She had to make it look like she was still dying, Puppa said when she wouldn’t come to the table.
Joel drove me home around seven.
“You want to come in and see what I’ve done?” I asked.
He looked straight ahead, as if debating. “Why not? I haven’t been in there since I was a kid.” He turned off the ignition and came after me.
“Nice kitchen,” he said, kicking his shoes off on the rug.
“Think so? I thought about changing some things because it feels so small.”
He looked around the room. “It has everything a good chef needs. Nice work triangle, a prep island, and stools for company. No need to change a thing.”
“Thanks. I’ll go easy on it.”
We walked from room to room. I gave Joel the rundown on the improvements. He made all the right comments.
Upstairs, I leaned against the banister overlooking the great room.
“So what’s the history behind this place, anyway?” I asked him.
His hands rested on the log railing. “I’m not sure. Some big family hunting lodge from back when there was still family to fill it, I guess. Unfortunately, the years haven’t been kind to the Russos. They just petered out ’til there’s just me and Gerard—and now you—left to carry on.”
I looked out over an orange sky. “Seems sad, doesn’t it? I mean, what is it about our family that causes us to self-destruct?”
Joel was quiet for a minute. “Is it just us? Or is it everybody? We’re not the only ones living lonely and afraid. It’s everywhere you look.”
