Little Whispers

by Glen Krisch

  “Sometimes I wonder …” her mom said, hesitating, “like in the grocery store checkout line, or when we’re finding our seats at the movie theater … I’ll see a woman who’d be close enough in age and appearance that I can’t help thinking—”

  “Krista,” her dad said, “you shouldn’t do that to yourself—”

  “But I do! Don’t you get it? I do. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve made eye contact with those women, hoping to see some spark of recognition reflecting back at me.”

  “Krista … there was a trial. Edgar Jenkins—”

  “Don’t speak his name …”

  “Fine. He is never going to see the light of day.”

  “No matter how many times I try to convince myself that that’s enough … I just can’t. He might never see the light of day, but damn it, I can’t bring myself to believe she’s not out there somewhere … and that she’s somehow happy, somehow whole.”

  Her parents didn’t speak for a long time after that.

  Clara stared out the window, piecing together the details.

  The sound of the engine changed as the Volvo slowed.

  “This is beautiful,” her dad said.

  Her mom grumbled in agreement.

  “Are we almost there?” Clara said, leaning forward between the seats.

  “Just at the end of this road.” The corners of her mom’s mouth curved into the slightest smile, but the apprehension in her eyes betrayed any possible joy.

  Clara looked from her mom’s short auburn curls to the road ahead, searching for any sign of Poppa’s house. She had never been here before, and neither had her dad for that matter. Even so, she had pored over so many grainy photos that she had a clear mental image.

  They approached a stout white A-frame building, but Clara knew to look for a chocolate-colored house. A twinkle of silver sparkled in the distance. Little Whisper Lake. It had to be, which meant they were getting close. According to her mom, no more than ten homes lined the perimeter of the lake, Poppa’s included.

  After a half mile of seemingly untamable wilderness, they came across a nook carved into the beech and pinewood growth.

  “This is it,” her mom whispered. “Oh my God, this is it.”

  The car pulled into a crushed gravel driveway.

  Nestled at the center of the clearing was the house from the fading Polaroids: a dark brown bungalow that nearly blended in with the surrounding shadows. Broad windows with forest green storm shutters were set on either side of the central mahogany doorway. An arching cobblestone path led to the front porch. And much to her delight, through the wide and open windows, bookshelves filled the front room from floor to ceiling, filled with books in every color, breadth, and dimension, like a library.

  “Wow,” Clara said.

  “Definition, please?” her dad said, and they all laughed.

  Maybe this summer vacation isn’t going to be so horrible after all.

  An old man struggled up from a porch swing. Once on his feet, even from a distance, Clara could see his legs tremble and a slight tremor in his hands.

  Oh, Poppa.

  Clara was filled with both longing and a queasy trepidation.

  “I thought he’d be in bed,” her mom said, “or at least resting inside.”

  Her dad nodded. “Me, too.”

  The Forresters left the Volvo, all stiff-limbed after the four-hour drive. The spattering of nearby pine trees suffused the air with their lush scent. Clara could have just woken from a dream of wintertime splendor to discover it’s still the beginning of summer vacation. The breeze was cooler than back home. Clean. The simple word could find no better physical representation.

  Poppa came shuffling down the narrow cobblestone path, arms outstretched, a broad but tired smile on his face. He wore a red polo shirt tucked into gray sweat pants that hung on his stick-figure frame. It was shocking how much he’d wasted away. His skin was loose, gray and liver-spotted. His hair was pure white, erupting in downy curls around his ears and the back of his head. His eyes were alert, crisp, like little shards of blue ice. Clara clearly noted underlying fatigue mixed with pain.

  From the corner of her eye, Clara sensed movement from one of the windows, and glimpsed a tousle of dark hair before the person drew away.

  Yay, Heidi is here!

  She hadn’t seen any of her cousins since the holidays.

  “Poppa,” her mom said, “what are you doing outside in the damp?” She hugged him hard before he could answer.

  “Oh … oh, you don’t need to fuss. Really. I’m having a good day. The fresh air lubricates my weary bones.”

  “Pierce,” her dad said when the old man was free from the hug.

  “Neal, a pleasure.”

  “Likewise.”

  They shook hands, and it looked like her dad would embrace the old man as well, but Poppa turned away when he noticed Clara.

  “Oh, my dear lord, is this Miss Clarabelle? Aren’t you supposed to be knee-high?” He placed his quavering hand on her head, leaned in close to apprise her.

  She felt a mad desire to curtsy, but remained unmoving, silent.

  “Clara, don’t be rude. Say hello to your great-grandpa.”

  “Hi … Poppa.”

  Poppa pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. “You look like your momma when she was your age, like two peas in a pod.”

  “Poppa, let’s get you inside,” her mom said.

  “Sure, sure.” Poppa turned slowly toward the door. “The four of us can talk peacefully before all the others arrive.”

  “Others?” Clara said, confused.

  “Yeah,” her dad said. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You know, your uncle and aunt, your cousins? Remember, this is a family vacation?”

  “You Forresters are always on time,” Poppa said and chuckled. “Your mom’s brother and sister on the other hand … not so much.”

  “But, I thought …?” Clara glanced at the window again, saw only bookshelves in the background. The bountiful sunlight afforded no possibility of tricks of shadow.

  No, she had seen someone. Perhaps not her cousin Heidi, but someone. Someone with long unruly dark hair.

  Poppa and her dad filed inside.

  “What is it, honey?” her mom asked.

  Clara wanted to glance once more to the window, but she was too afraid of what she might see. “Never mind.” She forced a smile, but seeing the apprehension in her mom’s face, she asked, “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “I am, honey.” Her eyes betrayed the full extent of her unspoken feelings, but Clara thought there was some truth to her words.

  CHAPTER 2

  Poppa walked with a limp favoring his left leg, but he shuffled with surprising quickness. He didn’t hesitate at the spacious den and its comfortable couch, preferring instead to head for the kitchen on the far side of the house.

  “You sure you don’t want to have a seat in the den?” her dad said.

  “It’s better for me to sit in the kitchen.”

  “Okay then,” her dad said.

  Poppa sat on one of the cushioned stools lining the kitchen island and squinted with a sly smile as he gazed through the sliding glass door leading to a two-story deck.

  Clara felt disoriented.

  How would everyone be able to stay under one roof?

  All told—with her family of three, plus Aunt Leah and Uncle Curtis, their kids Robby and Heidi, and Uncle Jack and his son Trevor, as well as Poppa himself—ten people would be together under one roof. Yet the interior of the house seemed to sprawl beyond its exterior limitations. Perhaps it was the bright afternoon sunlight gleaming on the knotty wood flooring, or distant rooms with hidden nooks and passageways. Perhaps it was even the subtle way the home was built into the hill leading down to Little Whisper Lake. Whatever quirk of de
sign explained the effect, Clara felt like she was walking through an optical illusion.

  “See, the light’s better in here,” Poppa said when she reached his side, “and I can see the lake out the window.”

  “We have a lake out our window, too,” Clara said. She absently ran her fingers along the pleats of her skirt, her apprehension beginning to ease.

  The sunlight certainly was brighter here, though she saw only a thin ribbon of the lake through the rugged terrain of the wooded lot.

  “Mighty Lake Michigan, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and grinned. “It’s like an inland ocean. We see it clear as day from our balcony, which is on the twenty-third floor.”

  “Do you know I’ve stood on that same balcony, with you in my arms?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.” Clara glanced at her dad for confirmation, and he nodded.

  “You were a couple days old, still all wrinkles, and with the tiniest fingers and toes I’ve ever come across.”

  “Sounds like a hobbit!” Clara blushed and chided herself for blurting out the first thing to come to mind. She had been obsessed with everything Tolkien for over a year. His fictional characters and landscapes were everywhere, it seemed.

  “Now that you mention it, there was the slightest resemblance. But you know what? You were even more magical than any old hobbit. Still are.”

  Poppa laughed and Clara wanted to leap into his arms but she resisted.

  “And just so you know, there’s no need to sir me, Clarabelle. I’ve never gotten used to that pretension, no matter the circumstance.”

  “Yes …” she said and paused, biting her tongue, “Poppa.”

  Clara felt an immediate kinship with Poppa. Since her mom announced they would be vacationing at the summer house, Clara had read a couple of his books about nature conservation. She’d heard his voice in her head, narrating his clear and impassioned prose. Even though they had rarely been in the same room, she felt like she knew him through his writings.

  He patted her head, and he looked as handsome as in his author photo, though certainly more gaunt.

  Her mom sighed. “She’s just trying to be polite, Poppa.”

  “I know, dear. I just don’t have the time left on this earth to get bogged down with it. Straight and to the point is my new motto. I should have it stamped on my forehead.”

  “Well, if that’s the case …” Her mom rested a hand on the refrigerator door. “Do you want ham and Swiss, or turkey and provolone?”

  “First, two questions,” Poppa said.

  “Yes?” She crossed her arms, impatient.

  “First off, you know what’s in my fridge?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Poppa chuckled. “And secondly, I’m having a sandwich?”

  “Yes. You look hungry, but I didn’t want to take the time to ask.” Her face was a stony façade, but she couldn’t hide the conflicting emotions in her eyes—lighthearted warmth mixing with raw sadness.

  “Krista—” her dad cut in.

  “Ham and Swiss,” Poppa answered, “and I love you.”

  “I love you too, Poppa. Mustard and mayo?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  She turned to her dad. “Neal?”

  He gave a thumbs up. “Make that two of the same.”

  “Me, three!” Clara added before her mom could even ask.

  “Ready in a jiffy.” Though her mom was making light of the situation, it wasn’t a light situation they were facing.

  She watched her mom bustle about the kitchen, amazed she remembered where everything was kept after such a long absence. She found the plates on the first guess, the knife and bread on the second.

  Poppa and her dad chatted about their shared interests in law and environmental conservation, their time apart now inconsequential, their voices jovial and familiar.

  No matter the outcome of this visit, no matter the grim provenance behind her family’s long absence, Clara could already declare this visit worthwhile. She inhaled deeply, easily, and when she exhaled she was surprised when her chest hitched with a sudden jolt of sadness.

  Her dad, sensing something amiss, glanced her way.

  By the time their eyes met, Clara managed to turn a potential onslaught of tears into a soft chuckle. Her dad smiled and she managed to mimic him. She hated losing control.

  “I’m going to check out the library,” she said, wandering from the room before anyone could be the wiser.

  She let her family’s voices wash over her, let their gathering laughter cocoon her from reality. She crossed her arms across her stomach, wanting nothing more than to capture this moment—their happiness, not her stupid silly emotions—and remember it for all her days. But she couldn’t, not for the life of her.

  tur-muh-nl.

  in-op-er-uh-buhl.

  Two weeks ago, while she’d been peering out her cracked bedroom door, she heard her mom utter those two words. Clara had only gotten out of bed after hearing her parents’ raised voices—such an alien sound in their home. And when she heard those two words, Clara immediately mouthed the phonetics of each, hearing every nuance and texture, every etymological wrinkle.

  Sometimes her photographic memory was as much a curse as a blessing. It helped with spelling bees, but in real life it tended to complicate matters both big and small.

  With those words still on her lips, she’d retreated from her hiding spot and jumped into bed, pulled the covers to her chin. She’d barely slept that night, and the nights after had been plagued by fitful, broken slumber.

  Her ever-churning mind, even now upon recollection, wanted to blurt out the definitions for those two horrible words: tur-muh-nl … in-op-er-uh-buhl.

  She squeezed her eyes closed until stars shot across her vision, until the words receded to the background. The sunlight warmed her eyelids, swaddling her in amber hues. She opened her eyes and breathed without torment, without the threat of unsettling emotions.

  Her heels clicked along the hardwood floor, the voices becoming senseless enunciations she still found some small comfort upon hearing.

  The initial glimpse of the library had only teased a small portion of the bibliophilic splendor she now entered. The heady smell of old leather engulfed her like a favorite blanket. Her eyes panned the hundreds of vertical spines, barely registering a single title as she marveled at the limitless possibilities within her reach. Her mind soared as she reached at random for a thick brown tome. She smiled; if judged by its heft alone, the book would be centuries old.

  She read with some difficulty the thin cursive script of the title:

  Terrenum Quidem Monstrum

  Her heart rollicked in her chest. The title was Latin, she had no doubt, but she didn’t know what it meant. Something about Terre … terra … earth. And monstrum … monsters?

  She had no idea what this book was about—nor most of the other books extending high to the ceiling—and that feeling was so exhilarating! She slid the hefty book back in its place, making sure the spine sat flush with the edge of the shelf.

  She paced the length of the bookcase, letting her fingers brush the soft leather. At the corner of the room stood a low cabinet with a large open book atop it. The cabinet divided the room into halves; one half housed the antique books, the other modern books with a motley mixing of dust jackets. She glanced at the enormous book. A dictionary.

  If Clara were to sketch her idea of heaven, it would be this very room.

  “Clarabelle, your sandwich is ready.”

  She almost jumped at the sound of Poppa’s voice. She turned quickly to see him leaning against the door frame, a bemused look on his face.

  “Your books …” She was going to say are beautiful, but that wouldn’t have completed the thought. To complete the thought, she’d also have to ask what would happen to t
hem once he was gone. He no longer existing was something she didn’t feel capable of understanding.

  “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.” Poppa placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and together they walked back to the kitchen. “I’m so glad you decided to come visit me.”

  Poppa’s hand gripped her shoulder, and by the time they reached the kitchen he was pretty much using Clara as a crutch. When he sat on his cushioned stool, he looked exhausted but still somehow at peace.

  CHAPTER 3

  After Neal insisted he and Clara could handle washing the lunch dishes, Krista retreated with her grandpa to the deck off the back of the kitchen. A light breeze carried the scent of the lake through the surrounding trees, hinting at what was hidden below.

  She watched her husband and daughter working like a well-oiled machine. Their fluid movements surprised her, considering they rarely did much housework back home.

  “You can’t help yourself,” Poppa said.

  “What’s that?” Krista said, reluctantly glancing his way.

  “Being on the clock.” He lifted his chin and squinted in contentment, the wrinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes.

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “Krista,” he said, “I didn’t want you here just because of … well, what’s coming.”

  “I know, Poppa,” she said absently.

  “Even though there is more to your return than my ill-health, I don’t think you would’ve come unless I was on death’s door.”

  “Poppa, that’s not true.” Her gaze dropped to her hands resting in her lap.

  “Yeah, you were never a good liar.”

  She glanced nervously inside, witnessing Clara pass a wet but clean plate to Neal. She looked back at Poppa. Although rail-thin, the gleam hadn’t yet left his eyes.

  “Besides this morbid ritualizing of my death, I wanted you and your siblings to experience this …” He extended a trembling hand, as if to indicate the entire world. “I want you to live, to live … to experience serenity. If I could give you anything more before my time is up, it would be that. I owe you at least that much.”